v-0, 

J I 


THE  SEEN  AND  THE  UNSEEN. 


BY  T.   S.   ARTHUR. 


PHILADELPHIA : 
J.    3.    LIPPINCOTT   &   CO. 

1877. 


Entered  according  to  the  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1868,  by 
J.  B.  IJPPINCOTT  &  CO., 

In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  for  the  Eastern  District  of 
Pennsylvania. 


CONTENTS. 


i. 

PAGE 
THis  SEEN  AND  THE  UNSEEN 7 


II. 

OUR  CHANGING  STATES 23 

III. 

THE  SWEET  FOUNTAIN 32 

IV. 

COMFORTED ,  ..    45 


V. 


(KJT  OF  TUNE 66 

3 


2047319 


4  CONTENTS. 

VI. 

PAG1 

SUNDAY  RELIGION ..    68 


VII. 

THE  LIFE  TO  COME 76 

VIII. 

THE  FACE  AND  THE  LIFE 86 

IX. 

NOT  AS  OUR  WAYS ..    99 


X. 

OUR  HEAVENLY  HOMES 114 

XI. 
FORGIVENESS 122 

XII. 
IS  IT  WELL  WITH   YOU? , 187 


CONTENTS.  5 

XIII. 

IP  I  WERE  ONLY  IN  HEAVEN 152 

XIV. 
UNDER  A  CLOUD 1W 

XV. 

NOW  AND  TO-DAY 176 

XVI. 

A  LESSON  IN  LIFE 183 

XVII. 

AN  HOUR  WITH  MYSELF ...  190 

1* 


THE  SEEN  AMD  THE  UNSEEN. 


i. 

THE   SEEN  AND   THE  UNSEEN. 


is  a  double  life  with  every  man  —  the 
seen  and  the  unseen." 

Thus  spoke  the  stranger,  while  I  listened  won- 
deringly. 

"And  two  forms  of  life  as  well  as  two  lives, 
for  there  can  be  no  life  without  a  form  of  life. 
Two  bodies  —  the  one  seen,  and  the  other  unseen." 

"  Two  bodies  ?" 

"  Yes.  In  the  words  of  Paul,  there  is  a  natu 
ral  body,  and  there  is  a  spiritual  body.  Many 
read  this  as  if  will  be  were  in  the  place  of  is,  when 
the  spiritual  body  is  spoken  of;  but  Paul  meant 


8  THE    SEEN    AND    THE    UNSEEN. 

that  no  such  construction  should  be  placed  on  his 
language.  He  spoke  of  the  unseen  body,  with 
out  which  the  seen  body  could  have  no  exist 
ence." 

"  Your  meaning  is  veiled,"  said  I. 

"  Not  veiled,"  answered  the  stranger ;  (i  you  see 
the  truth  obscurely,  because  your  vision  is  dim. 
Scales  shut  out  the  true  light.  Let  me  remove 
them.  Does  your  eye  see  ?" 

"  If  not,  how  do  I  perceive  forms  and  colors  ?" 

"That  beautiful  organ  of  flesh  and  blood, 
called  the  eye — I  mean  that  natural  orb  so  won 
derful  in  its  construction — does  that  see  objects 
around  you? — or  is  it  only  a  kind  of  window, 
through  which  the  unseen,  or  true  spiritual  eye, 
looks  forth  upon  the  world  of  nature  ?  Think ! 
Is  it  possible  for  mere  matter  to  have  the  power 
of  sight?" 

"  Not  unorganized  matter,"  I  replied. 

"  Unorgani'zed.  And  what  is  organized  mat 
ter  ?  It  is  a  material  form  in  which  is  a  princi 
ple  of  life,  and  the  form  is  determined  by  the 


THE    SEEN    AND    THE    UNSEEN.  9 

character  of  the  animating  principle.  Without 
the  unseen,  the  seen  would  be  inert  and  dead. 
Your  eye  is  an  organized  form,  because  there  is 
an  unseen  principle  of  life — in  other  words,  an 
unseen  eye — within,  giving  it  the  power  of  natu 
ral  vision.  This  is  as  true  of  the  ear  and  its  uses 
as  it  is  of  the  eye ;  of  the  brain  as  of  the  ear ;  of 
the  heart  and  lungs  as  of  the  brain ;  and,  still  fur 
ther,  as  true  of  the  whole  body  as  of  a  single 
member.  Thus,  there  is  an  unseen  as  well  as 
seen  body ;  and  the  former  is  equally  susceptible 
of  impressions  with  the  latter — nay,  more  suscep 
tible,  because  it  is  more  highly  organized." 

"  Organized  ?" 

"Yes,  spiritually  organized." 

"  You  startle  me.  If  this  be  true,  what  won 
derful  things  are  involved !" 

"  We  are  fearfully  and  wonderfully  made,"  re 
turned  the  stranger,  in  a  solemn  voice.  "  This  is 
divine  language,  and  has  a  divine  and  spiritual 
meaning.  Yes;  wonderful  things  are  involved. 
If  we  have  this  spiritual  body,  then  we  have  an 


10         TUB  SEEN  AND  THE  UNSEEN. 

inner  as  well  as  an  outer  life.  And  do  not  all 
admit  this  vaguely  ?" 

"  There  is  an  inner  life,"  I  said. 

"If  an  inner  life,  then  an  inner  form  of 
life." 

"  And  that  form,  as  you  say,  must  take  impres 
sions." 

"  Yes,  and  retain  them." 

"  Not  so  tenaciously  as  this  outward,  physical 
form." 

"  More  tenaciouslyj"  said  the  stranger. 

"  This  I  do  not  clearly  perceive.  A  form  so 
sublimated,  so  etherial,  so  unsubstantial,  must 
almost  instantly  overcome  impressions." 

"  It  is  not  an  unsubstantial,  but  a  truly  sub 
stantial  form,"  was  answered.  "There  is  mate 
rial  substance  and  spiritual  substance ;  the  latter 
is  an  abiding  substance,  but  the  former  is  ever 
changing.  Think!  Upon  which  does  an  im 
pression  remain  the  longest — upon  your  body  or 
your  mind?" 

"  Upon  my  mind." 


THE    SEEN    AND    THE    UNSEEN.  11 

"  If  it  were  not  a  substance,  could  it  receive 
and  retain  impressions  ?" 

I  was  silent.  The  words  of  the  stranger  were 
so  full  of  meaning  that  I  was  oppressed  by  their 
signification.  A  window  seemed  opening  into  the 
unseen  world ;  but,  as  yet,  no  objects  were  plainly 
visible. 

"Look  around  you,"  said  the  stranger.  "There 
is  the  dull,  cold,  lifeless  earth.  Seeds  have  been 
cast  into  its  bosom.  Now,  by  what  are  they  vi 
vified  ?  And  by  what  power  does  each  send  up, 
after  its  kind,  its  leaf  and  stalk  ?  From  whence 
is  this  wonderful  and  perfect  discrimination  ?  It 
is  from  the  unseen  spiritual  world  flowing  from 
its  infinitely  variant  principles  of  life  into  forms 
of  matter  presented  in  seeds.  In  germs  lie  the 
points  of  influx;  and  each,  after  its  kind,  receives 
life  from  the  unseen  world.  And  as  the  law  of 
like  producing  like  is  an  invariable  law,  it  fol 
lows  that,  in  order  to  the  production  of  a  par 
ticular  plant  or  tree  in  the  seen  world,  there 
must  be  a  like  plant  or  tree  in  the  unseen  world, 


12  THE    SEEN    AND    THE    UNSKEN. 

from  which  it  exists,  as  an  effect  flowing  from  its 
cause." 

"Trees  and  plants  in  the  other  world!"  I 
shook  my  head  doubtingly.  "That  is  a  mere 
spiritual  world." 

"Will  you  have  a  world  without  the  objects 
that  make  up  a  world?"  asked  the  stranger.  "A 
spiritual  world  will  have  spiritual  objects." 

"  Oh,  spiritual !" 

"  Your  ideas  of  the  spiritual,"  said  the  stranger, 
"are  still  dark  and  obscure.  But  this  is  no  cause 
of  wonder.  Here,  all  is  brought  to  the  test  of 
our  sensuous  perceptions ;  and  it  is  hard  to  rise 
above  and  withdraw  our  thoughts  from  them  so 
as  to  think  abstractedly.  But  do  not  reject  as 
false  what  you  cannot  understand  when  first  pre 
sented.  You  need  not,  you  should  not,  receive 
as  true  what  comes  to  your  mind  without  suffi 
cient  evidence.  But  to  negative  a  proposition 
because  the  mind  does  not  rise  at  once  into  its 
comprehension  is  not  the  act  of  a  wise  man. 
Hold  your  mind  ever  in  the  affirmative  state  j 


THE    SEEN    AND    THE    UNSEEN.  13 

Dut  admit  nothing  as  truth  which  is  not  clearly 
seen.  Prove  all  things  j  and,  in  doing  so,  bear  in 
mind  this  wise  saying — there  are  more  things  in 
heaven  and  earth  than  are  dreamed  of  in  your 
philosophy." 

We  separated — I  and  the  stranger.  But  I 
could  not  forget  his  remarkable  language. 

"  Two  lives !"  said  I,  as  I  sat  musing  alone  in 
the  still  watches  of  the  night  that  followed. 
"  Two  lives  and  two  forms  of  life — an  outer  and 
an  inner  life ;  the  seen  and  the  unseen.  Two  bo 
dies  ;  a  natural  and  a  spiritual  body — each  sub 
stantial,  and  capable  of  receiving  and  retaining 
impressions.  How  full  of  meaning  is  all  this! 
How  much  does  it  involve!  And  can  it  be 
true  ?" 

The  longer  I  pondered  the  subject,  the  more 
truth  seemed  involved  in  the  proposition.  It  was 
plain  to  me  that  the  unseen  body,  the  spiritual 
man,  must  be  as  complete  in  every  part  as  the  na 
tural  body,  which  was  but  as  its  outer  garment, 


14  THE   SEEN   AND   THE   UNSEEN. 

or,  ratner,  its  means  of  action  in  the  lower  and 
less  perfect  world  of  matter. 

"And  if  all  this  be  so,"  said  I,  one  thought 
evolving  another,  "  how  wonderful  in  perfection 
must  that  body  be,  organized,  as  it  is,  of  spiritual 
substances ;  and  how  perfectly  must  the  spiritual 
countenance  express  the  passions  and  emotions  of 
the  soul !  Ah !  how  different  will  all  be  when  we 
come  to  lay  aside  this  body  of  flesh  and  blood — 
this  mass  of  inertia,  now  infilled  with  the  life  of 
the  spirit,  which  it  is  ever  bearing  down,  and 
whose  powers  it  is  ever  limiting !  In  that  un 
seen  world,  there  will  be  no  veil  of  matter  to  hide 
the  moral  quality.  All  eyes  will  see  us  in  our 
true  characters — in  our  true  spiritual  forms." 

I  paused.  The  last  words  were  the  plane  for  a 
new  influx  of  ideas. 

"What  is  a  spiritual  form?"  I  asked  myself. 
I  pondered  long. 

"  What  is  spiritual"?" 

I  mused  still  further. 

"  Tt  is  thought  and  affection.     A  spiritual  form, 


THE    SEEN    AND    THE    UNSEEN.  15 

then,  is  a  form  of  affection ;  or,  in  other  words,  an 
affection  clothed  in  its  proper  thought ;  for  it  is 
by  thought  that  affection  comes  into  manifest  per 
ception,  and  shows  us  its  quality.  Can  this  be 
so?  How  much,  undreamed  of  before,  is  in 
volved  !  Will  evil  affections  give  a  lovely 
form  ?"  "  No !"  was  my  involuntary  answer. 

My  thoughts  turned  toward  a  beautiful  young 
lady  whom  I  had  met  during  the  day,  who  was 
greatly  admired  for  her  personal  charms.  In 
form  and  face  she  was  almost  faultless.  I  now 
remembered  that,  in  conversing,  she  had  exhibited 
a  feeling  of  malice  toward  another ;  and  had  also 
displayed  a  large  share  of  vanity. 

"The  seen  body  is  beautiful,"  said  I,  still 
musing;  "but,  is  it  so  with  the  unseen  body? 
Can  an  evil  affection  clothe  itself  in  a  form  of 
loveliness  ?" 

I  pondered  this  question  until  there  came  a 
great  change.  I  was  no  longer  in  my  chamber, 
musing  upon  different  questions-,  but  among  a 
company  of  people  who  sat  in  the  porch  of  a 


16         THE  SEEN  AND  THE  UNSEEN. 

large  building,  the  architecture  of  which  was 
more  perfect  than  anything  I  had  ever  beheld. 
Before  us  spread  out  a  beautiful  landscape. 

"  This  is  a  new  country  to  me,"  said  I  to  one 
who  was  near  me ;  and,  as  I  spoke,  I  tried  to  re 
collect  the  way  by  which  I  had  come.  "  What 
is  its  name?" 

"This  is  the  World  of  Spirits,"  replied  the 
person  to  whom  I  had  addressed  the  inquiry. 

"The  World  of  Spirits!"  A  thrill  went 
through  me.  Was  I  then  dead  ? 

"Not  dead,"  said  my  companion,  who  per 
ceived  my  thoughts,  "  but  truly  alive.  You 
have  laid  aside  the  body  of  flesh,  and  arisen  in 
the  true  spiritual  body." 

"  But  these  are  flesh !"  said  I,  holding  up  my 
hands ;  "  I  can  touch  one  against  the  other. 
Moreover,  I  can  touch  your  body,  and  it  is  firm, 
like  my  own." 

"And  yet  all  is  spiritual,"  was  replied.  "Your 
body  and  my  body,  and  the  bodies  of  all  around 
us,  are  spiritual  in  their  substance.  Our  senses 


THE  SEEN  AND  THE  UNSEEN.         17 

likewise  are  spiritual.  What  made  us  men  ou 
earth  ?  Our  flesh  and  blood  ?  Mere  dead  mat 
ter?  Far  from  it.  We  were  men,  because  we 
were  spiritually  organized,  and,  in  the  human 
form,  made  after  the  likeness  and  in  the  image  of 
God.  Does  the  laying  aside  of  the  natural  body 
make  us  less  men — less  human  ?  No !  And  can 
we  be  men,  without  having  bodily  form  and 
senses  ?" 

As  he  spoke,  there  approached  one  whom  I 
had  known  in  the  world,  and  who  had  departed 
thence  a  year  before.  She  had  many  questions  to 
ask  about  friends  she  had  left  behind,  all  of  which 
I  answered.  As  she  left  me,  after  a  time,  I 
turned  to  the  one  with  whom  I  had  spoken,  and 
said  to  him — 

"  How  is  this  ?  In  the  other  life  this  person 
had  «a  beautiful  body ;  but  now  she  is  deformed 
and  repulsive." 

"  It  is  because  her  aifections  are  evil,  and  not 
good,"  replied  my  companion.  "  In  this  world, 

all  are  seen  according  to  their  quality.     Good  af- 
2*  B 


18         THE  SEEN  AND  THE  UNSEEN. 

fections  give  beautiful  forms,  and  evil  affections 
repulsive  forms." 

My  thoughts  instantly  turned  toward  one  who, 
while  living  in  the  world,  had  a  sickly  and  de 
formed  body,  but  who  had  a  pure  and  loving  spi 
rit,  and  whose  chief  delight  appeared  to  be  to  do 
good ;  and,  as  I  thought  of  her,  I  saw  her  ap 
proaching.  She  drew  near,  and  joined  the  com 
pany.  Oh,  what  a  change !  The  bent  body  was 
straight  and  graceful,  and  the  severe  angles  of  her 
suffering  countenance  had  given  place  to  a  sur 
passing  beauty.  My  heart  was  touched  with  ad 
miring  wonder,  as  I  looked  upon  her. 

Another  whom  I  had  known  appeared.  He 
was  a  man  who,  while  living  in  the  world,  had 
been  covetous,  but  who  loved  a  good  reputa 
tion,  and,  therefore,  concealed  his  real  character 
under  assumed  forms  of  benevolence  and  libera 
lity.  While  in  the  natural  body  he  was  fair  in 
person,  but  now  there  was  a  hideousness  about 
his  countenance,  that  made  me  turn  from  him  with 
a  shudder;  and  I  understood  the  quality  of  his  life 


THE    SEEN    AND    THE    UNSEEN.  19 

from  the  form  and  expression  of  his  person  and 
face,  as  clearly  as  if  "  Covetousness"  had  been 
written  upon  his  forehead. 

"  This  man  was  of  goodly  appearance  in  the 
world,"  said  I,  turning  to  my  companion. 

"  His  seen  body  was  fair  to  look  upon,"  was 
replied  ;  "  but  his  evil  affections  were  daily  and 
slowly  destroying,  in  the  unseen  body,  every  trace 
of  beauty.  Come  with  me,  and  I  will  show  you 
some  of  those  who  have  become  so  changed  from 
the  human  form,  through  evil  lives,  as  to  appear 
more  like  beasts  than  men." 

My  companion  took  me  to  a  valley,  before  con 
cealed  from  view  by  a  dense  forest,  through  which 
led  a  winding  path.  In  this  valley  were  compa 
nies  of  men  and  women,  engaged  in  various  pur 
suits  that  seemed  to  occupy  their  earnest  attention. 

"  Look  from  this  point,"  said  my  companion, 
as  we  gained  a  little  eminence,  "and  you  will  see 
them  in  their  true  forms." 

I  looked  for  a  moment,  and  then  turned  away, 
sick  with  the  sight. 


20  THE    SEEN    AND    THE    UNSEEN. 

"  What  did  you  see  ?"  asked  my  companion. 

"Men  and  women  so  changed  as  to  appear 
more  like  evil  and  filthy  beasts,  than  forms  of 
human  intelligence." 

"As  you  saw  them,  so  are  they.  While  in  the 
natural  body,  many  of  them  had  beautiful  forms, 
for  which  they  were  loved  and  admired.  But,  in 
their  life  in  the  world,  they  marred  the  form  and 
features  of  their  spiritual  bodies  by  evil  and 
beastly  affections.  One  had  the  cunning  of  the 
fox;  another  the  cruelty  of  the  wolf;  and  another 
the  filthy  sensuality  of  the  swine.  All  this  was 
hid  from  the  natural  sight — it  was  the  unseen. 
But  the  veil  of  flesh  is  removed,  and  what  was 
unseen  has  become  the  seen.  They  are  now  be 
fore  you  in  the  forms  that  correspond  to  their  true 
affections. 

"  Oh,  if  men  knew  this !"  I  exclaimed. 

"Return  and  give  utterance  to  the  truth. 
Publish  what  your  eyes  have  seen  and  your  ears 
heard." 

"  But  they  will  not  believe,"  said  I. 


THE  SEEN  AND  THE  UNSEEN.         21 

"  Tell  it,  nevertheless." 

At  this  moment,  I  saw  approaching  one  whom 
1  had  once  loved  with  a  deep  affection,  and  whose 
loss  I  had  mourned  with  unavailing  sorrow.  She 
had  observed  me,  and  was  hurrying  forward.  As 
she  came  near,  I  perceived  that  she  was  no  longer 
beautiful  as  before.  Every  fair  feature  was  dis 
torted,  and  there  was  an  expression  of  evil  in  her 
countenance,  that  shocked  me  like  an  electric  cur 
rent.  Oh,  she  was  hideous!  I  turned  to  flee; 
but  she  threw  her  arms  around  me,  and  uttered 
words  of  endearment ;  and  her  voice,  instead  of 
being  flute-like  in  its  tones,  croaked  like  the  voice 
of  a  raven.  In  fear  and  sorrow  I  awoke. 

Long  did  I  lie  pondering  the  strange  vision. 
"  Dreams  are,  for  the  most  part,  fantastic,"  said 
I ;  "  but  they  often  come  in  similitudes  of  truth. 
There  is  truth  veiled  here ;  I  feel  it,  I  know  it. 
An  evil  life  must  distort  the  features  of  our  inner 
man,  and  change  them  from  beauty  to  deformity. 
We  know  that  the  soul  receives  impressions,  and 
retains  them.  Warp  the  soul  in  childhood, 


22  THE    SEEN    AND   THE    UNSEEN. 

and  it  ever  after  retains  the  unpleasing  form, 
which  is  ever  manifesting  itself  by  means  of  the 
outer  body.  If  we  could  see,  by  a  spiritual  vi 
sion,  this  soul  or  inner  body  itself,  we  would  see 
the  distortion  as  plainly  as  we  perceive  an  un 
sightly  crook  in  a  favorite  tree." 

And  if  all  this  be  so,  and  who  will  make  bold 
to  deny  it? — each  one  of  us  is,  day  after  day, 
either  marring  and  deforming  the  unseen  body, 
or  rendering  it  more  beautiful.  Every  evil  and 
selfish  affection,  every  unholy  passion,  every  in 
dulgence  in  wrong  feelings  or  actions,  deforms 
the  spirit;  while  every  good  and  generous  emo 
tion,  and  every  act  that  springs  from  a  purified 
and  all-embracing  love  of  our  neighbor,  is  render 
ing  it  more  and  more  beautiful,  and,  if  continued 
to  the  end  of  life,  the  unseen  body,  when  it  rises 
into  the  light  of  the  spiritual  world,  will  appear 
lovely  as  the  form  of  an  angel. 

Reader,  lay  this  up  in  your  heart,  and  ponder 
well  the  words  of  the  stranger.  They  are  not 
idle  sounds,  like  tones  from  the  passing  wind. 


OUR    CHANGING    STATES.  23 


T 


II. 

OUR  CHANGING  STATES. 

HE  weather  is  not  more  variable  than  our 
states  of  mind.  To-day  the  atmosphere  is  se 
rene,  the  sky  unclouded ;  to-morrow,  an  unquiet 
thrill  runs  pulsing  through  all  the  air,  and  our 
heavens  are  overcast.  We  are  shadowed  and 
troubled. 

These  changes  in  our  mental  condition  result 
often  from  unapparent  causes ;  and  often  from  dis1- 
turbances  of  so  light  a  character,  that  we  look 
back  at  them  in  wonder,  and  question  with  our 
selves  whether  something  more  serious,  which  we 
vainly  endeavor  to  recall,  does  not  exist.  It  is 
only  an  appearance  that  the  primary  cause  of 
these  sudden,  and  almost  uncontrollable  changes, 
comes  from  without,  jarring  us  from  our  tranquil 
self-possession.  The  elements  of  disquietude  are 


24         THE  SEEN  AND  THE  UNSEEN. 

all  within,  though  the  touch  by  which  they  are 
awakened,  may  reach  us  from  the  outside.  If 
there  was  nothing  within  to  be  disturbed,  the 
hand  of  discord  might  feel  about  our  heart-strings 
in  vain.  The  light  step  of  a  child  will  shake  the 
uncertain  bog ;  but  the  stamp  of  a  giant  moves 
not  the  solid  earth. 

Our  states  of  mind  are  always  affected  by  those 
with  whom  we  come  in  contact.  We  cannot  pass 
an  hour,  or  even  the  tenth  part  of  an  hour,  witn 
any  one,  and  not  experience  some  change  in  our 
feelings.  Sometimes  the  change  is  pleasant, 
sometimes  disagreeable.  A  visitor  drops  in. 
We  happen  to  be  feeling  dull.  Something  hae 
gone  wrong — we  are  under  a  cloud.  But,  sun 
shine  comes  in  with  our  visitor,  and  at  the  very 
sound  of  his  voice,  the  heart  beats  strong  again. 
His  conversation  soothes  us  into  tranquil  peace, 
or  lifts  our  thought  into  the  world  of  pure  ideas, 
beyond  life's  petty  discords.  He  leaves  us,  and 
our  mind  is  calmer  for  the  day.  Again — we  are 
in  a  peaceful  state.  Not  a  cloud  flecks  the  sky. 


OUR   CHANGING    STATES.  25 

To  live  is  enjoyment.  An  acquaintance  calls, 
and  almost  immediately  an  uneasy  motion  is  felt. 
His  sphere  touches  us  unpleasantly,  and  we  are 
instinctively  on  our  guard.  In  less  than  ten  mi 
nutes  we  feel  a  sense  of  disquietude.  Evil  and 
disturbing  elements  become  active.  Every  word 
he  utters  comes  as  a  challenge  to  some  bad  pas 
sion,  or  hurts  some  tender  spot.  He  probes  our 
sore  places  with  the  cool  precision  of  a  surgeon, 
and  goes  away,  at  length,  leaving  us  miserable  for 
the  day. 

As  there  is  no  gratuitous  evil,  the  class  of 
which  this  last-mentioned  individual  is  a  repre 
sentative,  has,  no  doubt,  its  use — no  credit  to  the 
class,  of  course.  It  must  needs  be  that  offences 
come ;  but  woe  to  him  by  whom  they  come.  All 
disturbing  elements  that  exist  in  our  minds  are 
evil  elements,  and  as  really  hurtful  to  the  spirit  as 
morbific  things  are  to  the  body;  and  it  is  just  as 
important  that  we  be  advised  of  their  existence, 
as  of  corresponding  things  in  the  lower  plane  of 
animal  life.  But,  while  quiescent,  their  existence 


26         THE  SEEN  AND  THE  UNSEEN. 

is  not  perceived.  Stealthily  their  evil  work  may 
be  going  on.  Like  spiders  in  dark  corners  and 
shut  chambers,  these  evil  things  are  silently  cast 
ing  fibre  after  fibre,  and  loop  after  loop,  around 
our  souls,  until  threads  of  gossamer  are  spun  into 
bonds  no  strength  of  ours,  may  sunder.  It  is  well 
for  us,  then,  that  some  hand  open  a  window  occa 
sionally,  and  let  in  the  light  upon  these  dark  cor 
ners  and  shut  chambers,  disturbing  the  spiders  at 
their  work.  There  will  be,  of  course,  a  sudden 
stir,  a  shaking  along  the  filmy  lines,  a  sense  of 
bondage  as  the  spirit  rises  to  an  easy  movement. 
From  repose  and  self-enjoyment — from  false  se 
curity,  there  will  be  an  awakening  into  painful 
disquietude.  We  are  offended,  perhaps,  because 
of  this  meddling  with  our  individual  life.  We 
blame  the  officious  hand  that  flung  open  a  shut 
window — we  call  him  a  disturber  of  our  peace 
who  frightened  the  spiders  at  their  evil  work,  and 
made  us  aware  of  their  presence.  And  he  may 
have  intended  to  disturb  us,  not  that  he  might 
help  us  to  cast  out  these  evil  things,  but  that  he 


OUR    CHANGING    STATES.  27 

might  enjoy  our  pain  and  humiliation.  But,  let 
us  remember,  that  if  there  be  no  unclean,  no  vile 
and  hurtful  things,  in  our  minds,  the  opening  of 
a  window,  and  flashing  in  of  light,  cannot  touch 
our  tranquil  states.  If  the  chambers  of  our  souls 
are  always  swept  and  garnished,  sunbeams  can 
only  reveal  order  and  beauty. 

And  so,  if  miserable  for  the  day,  after  such  a 
visitation,  good  must  follow  with  those'  who 
aspire  after  good — with  those  who,  once  made 
conscious  of  disease,  turn  to  the  great  Physician. 
We  may  not  be  able  to  think  well  of  him  who  dis 
covered  to  us  how  weak,  vain,  selfish  or  mean- 
spirited  we  were,  because  he  only  sought  to 
wound  and  humiliate.  Nay,  we  will  hold  our 
selves  guarded  at  the  next  interview,  lest  he  re 
veal  to  us  other  spider-filled  corners,  and  humble 
us  in  his  presence  again. 

Salutary  as  the  influence  of  these  disturbers  of 
our  peace  may  be,  through  the  revelations  they 
give  us  of  ourselves,  they  only  help  us  to  disco 
ver  evil,  which  they  scent  as  the  crow  scents  car- 


28  TIIE    SEEN    AND    THE    UNSEEN. 

rion.  They  are  not  physicians ;  have  no  oint 
ment  for  the  sores  they  uncover;  no  balm  for  the 
wounds  made  in  sharp  thrusts  into  our  tender 
sides.  They  hurt  us,  and  then  go  on  their  way 
rejoicing  that  they  left  us  in  pain.  With  us,  if 
we  are  indeed  of  those  who  are  striving  to  ascend 
to  the  higher  regions  of  spiritual  life,  where  the 
sky  is  clear,  and  the  air  serene,  they  leave,  in 
their  departure,  the  difficult  but  essential  duty  of 
forgiveness.  Let  us  see  to  it  that  our  hurt  in  the 
contact  is  less  than  was  intended ;  nay,  that  good 
come,  where  evil  was  designed. 

Of  that  other  class  to  which  we  have  referred, 
the  individuals  come  to  us  as  angels  come,  search 
ing  for  good.  They  are  those  who  say  to  evil,  be 
far  from  me.  In  their  company  the  bad  in  us 
hides  itself  still  farther  away,  or  skulks  to  the 
dim  exteriors  of  our  conscious  life,  shorn  for  the 
time  of  strength.  All  that  is  generous  and  no 
ble  ;  all  that  is  self-denying ;  all  that  gives  us 
sympathy  with  our  fellow-man;  all  that  invests 
goodness  with  beauty,  is  made  alive  and  active  in 


OUR    CHANGING    STATES.  29 

our  souls.  They  come  to  us  in  light — they  come 
to  us  in  love — making  truth  clearer,  and  affection 
warmer.  The  peace  that  dwells  with  them,  per 
vading  their  atmosphere  like  the  odorous  sphere 
surrounding  a  flower,  and  penetrating  to  our  life, 
is  no  slumbrous  calm.  The  sun  is  shining;  the  air 
is  clear  and  vital ;  good  seeds  in  the  ground  have 
sprung  up  in  thrifty  stalks,  and  the  harvest  nods 
hopefully  in  the  swelling  grain.  And  we  feel, 
while  with  them,  our  own  earth  drinking  the  sun, 
and  thank  God  for  the  signs  of  fruitfulness  in  our 
souls.  All  is  not  a  barren  waste,  as  we  some 
times  feared.  They  have  made  us  more  in  love 
with  goodness ;  strengthened  our  better  purposes  ; 
taught  us  lessons  of  forgiveness,  and  shown  us  how 
to  walk  with  him,  who,  when  upon  earth,  went 
about  doing  good.  Blessings  on  all  such!  Theii 
lives  are  in  heaven.  In  the  Golden  Age,  angels 
walked  with  men ;  not  in  natural  bodies,  but  in 
bodies  of  spiritual  substance,  made  visible  to  the 

spiritual  eyes  of  celestial  men,  living  in  primal 
3« 


30         THE  SEEN  AND  THE  UNSEEN. 

innocence.  Sin  closed  the  inner  senses,  and 
though 

"  Myriads  of  spiritual  beings  walk  the  earth  unseen, 
Whether  we  sleep  or  wake," 

our  darkened  vision  perceives  them  not.  And 
yet,  in  God's  inercy,  angels  still  walk  and  talk 
with  us,  leading  our  thoughts  upward,  and  these 
are  they  of  whom  we  have  just  spoken.  Their 
lives  are  in  heaven ;  but  they  dwell  in  natural  bo 
dies,  and  talk  with  us  face  to  face.  Blessings  on 
them,  we  repeat. 

Our  changes  of  state  are  all  dependent  on 
things  within  us.  Disturbing  influences  may 
come  from  without ;  but,  if  there  is  nothing  to 
disturb,  the  pressure  is  vain.  The  wind  that 
lashes  the  sea  into  fury,  sweeps  scarcely  heeded 
over  the  level  earth.  What  a  lesson  in  this ! — 
what  a  revelation !  Every  touch  from  the  out 
side  meets  some  response  within,  or  dies  unheeded. 
If  to  an  evil  allurement  an  evil  desire  starts  up, 
what  will  you  say?  That  the  allurement  created 


OUR    CHANGING    STATES.  31 

the  desire?  Not  so.  The  magnet  revealed  the 
iron.  The  evil  was  there.  And  so  of  any  and 
all  responses  made  by  the  soul.  Thus,  our 
changes  of  state  are  our  instructors.  They  show 
us  the  quality  of  our  lives ;  admonish  us  of  hid 
den  diseases ;  and  encourage  us  by  revelations  of 
progress  in  the  right  way,  or  triumphs  in  the 
good  fight. 


32         THE  SEEN  AND  THE  UNSEBN. 


III. 

THE  SWEET  FOUNTAIN. 

cup  is  too  bitter,"  said  the  lady— "Too, 
too  bitter !  I  cannot  drink  of  it."  And  a 
shudder  ran  through  her  frame.  Her  face  was 
wan  and  troubled ;  her  eyes  red  from  a  night  of 
weeping. 

"  But  at  last,  it  shall  be  sweet  to  the  taste." 
"You  mock  me!"  the  lady  exclaimed,  with  a 
sudden  throb  of  almost  indignant  rejection  in  her 
voice. 

"  Not  so,  my  dear  Mrs.  Lea,"  was  calmly,  al 
most  tenderly  answered.  "  We  are  in  God's 
hand,  and  all  his  ways  are  in  mercy.  If  he  per 
mit  sorrow  or  trouble,  misfortune  or  bereavement, 
to  darken  our  homes,  it  is  that  he  may  open  the 
way  for  brighter  sunbeams  to  enter.  In  the  bit- 


TIIK  SWEET  FOUNTAIN. 


Page  32. 


THE    SWEET    FOUNTAIN.  33 

tcrest  cup  placed  to  our  lips,  will  be  found  sweet 
ness  at  last." 

"There  can  be  no  sweetness  in  my  cup.  I 
shall  find  the  draft  grow  bitterer  and  bitterer 
even  to  the  dregs." 

"And  yet  I  say,  dear  friend!  it  was  dipped 
from  a  sweet  fountain." 

The  face  of  the  lady  who  thus  answered  was 
serene;  and  yet,  no  one  could  look  into  it  without 
seeing  the  old  marks  of  pain,  of  care,  of  endu 
rance  and  long  suffering.  The  lines  were  not 
now  sharply  cut;  but  rounded  and  softened  by  the 
verdure  which  heavenly  sunshine  and  refreshing 
dew  had  wakened  into  life. 

"  It  was  dipped  from  a  sweet  fountain,"  she  re 
peated,  "  and  the  water  is  sweet." 

"  Sweet !  Why  will  you  mock  me  ?"  And 
Mrs.  Lea,  with  a  half  offended  air,  shut  her  eyes, 
and  leaned  back  among  the  cushions  amid  which 
she  languidly  reposed.  Her  face  was  very,  very 
sad. 

"  The  bitterness  lies  in  your  taste.     But,  when 


34         THE  SEEN  AND  THE  UNSEEN. 

that  is  refined  and  made  perceptive  in  a  higher 
degree,  then  will  this  cup  of  offence,  as  it  now 
seems,  be  found  to  contain  heavenly  nectar.  I 
arn  not  speaking  with  a  vague  idealism — no, 
no — but  from  life-experience.  What  we  have 
lived  we  comprehend.  Time  was,  when  the  cup 
God  placed  to  my  lips  was  as  gall  and  worm 
wood.  Often  and  often  since,  have  I  drank  from 
the  same  cup,  and  found  it  honey  to  my  taste. 
Have  you  been  very  happy  in  the  time  past,  my 
friend?" 

Mrs.  Lea  did  not  answer  this  abruptly-put 
question,  and  a  period  of  silence  followed.  As 
her  friend  looked  into  her  troubled  countenance — 
the  eyes  were  still  shut — she  saw  thought  begin 
ning  to  obliterate  many  of  the  lines  that  expressed 
only  rebellion  and  suffering. 

"  In  the  time  past,"  she  resumed,  "  the  abun 
dance  of  this  world  has  been  gathered  to  your 
door.  You  have  enjoyed  wealth  and  position. 
But,  has  your  soul,  in  dwelling  with  these,  found 
unalloyed  pleasure  ?  Did  they  bring  satisfactions, 


THE    SWEET    FOUNTAIN.  35 

delights,  tranquilities  ?  Was  there  no  reaching 
of  the  soul  beyond  ?  No  yearnings  for  a  higher 
life  ?  Have  you  not  grown  weary,  and  restless, 
often,  under  a  sense  of  inadequacy  in  all  around 
you  to  minister  to  crying  wants  ?  Like  a  caged 
bird,  have  you  not  fluttered  as  in  a  prison,  pant 
ing  for  a  wider  range  and  purer  atmosphere? 
Yes,  my  friend ;  it  has  been  even  so.  You  need 
not  answer.  We  have  stood,  in  past  years,  very 
near  together,  and  I  have  seen  it  all.  You  have 
not  been  happy !" 

"My  own  fault,"  answered  Mrs.  Lea,  with 
slight  impatience  of  manner.  "  I  had  everything 
to  make  me  happy.  Now,  I  lose  everything  on 
which  my  soul  can  rest." 

"  So  far  from  that,"  said  the  friend,  "  you  will 
lose  nothing  on  which  true  happiness  is  based. 
*  Riches  and  honors  have  no  power,  in  themselves, 
to  give  blessing.  That  is  a  state  of  the  soul,  and 
comes  from  right  activities.  The  will  acts  in 
useful  ends,  and  gives  delight  according  to  its 
quality  of  love  to  God  and  man,  without  reference 


36         THE  SEEN  AND  THE  UNSEEN. 

to  external  conditions.  '  So  the  way  to  happiness 
is  set  before  the  humblest  and  the  poorest,  even 
as  it  is  set  before  the  rich  and  great.  If  the  rich 
will  not,  in  their  riches,  find  the  way  that  leads 
to  true  enjoyment,  and  it  is  possible  to  lead  them 
to  right  paths  through  the  vale  of  poverty,  God, 
wlrt)  is  infinite  in  his  love,  will,  from  love,  take 
them  down  into  this  valley,  and  in  it  show  them 
the  paths  of  peace,,  leading  up  to  the  mountains 
of  delight.  He  will  put  a  cup  to  their  lips  which 
may  prove  exceedingly  bitter  to  the  taste ;  but,  in 
the  end,  they  will  find  that  its  waters  came  from 
a  sweet  fountain.  In  these  sad  times,  He  is  lead 
ing  many  thousands  down  into  dark  and  difficult 
ways,  and  they  shrink,  and  tremble,  and  shudder 
as  they  descend.  But,  He  knows  what  is  in 
them,  and  will  see  that  no  good  is  lost,  and  no 
true  source  of  happiness  destroyed.  If  they  will 
be  patient,  submissive,  and  self-denying,  he  will 
surely  make  their  sun  to  shine  in  an  unclouded 
sky,  and  their  peace  to  flow  as  a  river.  Not,  it 
may  be,  through  any  restoration  of  former  things  j 


THE    SWEET    FOUNTAIN.  37 

but  in  a  new  life,  to  which  shall  be  given,  for 
nourishment,  celestial  food.  The  difference  of 
this  life  from  the  former  life,  will  be  as  that  be 
tween  the  chrysalis  and  the  butterfly.  O  my 
friend,  seek  for  this  life !  As  you  go  down  in  the 
ways  of  misfortune  that  must  be  trodden,  do  it 
with  a  brave  heart  and  with  trust  in  God.  He  is 
very  near  to  all ;  but  especially  and  intimately 
near  to  those  who,  in  suffering  and  sorrow,  turn 
to  him  in  tearful  hope,  and  prayerful  confidence. 
He  will  make  what  looks  so  rough  in  the  dis 
tance,  smooth  and  soft  as  grassy  meadows.  Down 
amid  those  gloomy  shadows  that  appal  your  soul, 
rays  of  divine  light  will  come.  Angel  hands 
shall  lead  you,  and  angel  voices  speak  words  of 
consolation  and  hope." 

And  it  came,  in  time,  to  be  even  so.  There 
was  good  in  Mrs.  Lea.  Potent  in  her  heart  were 
all  the  elements  of  a  true  woman,  ind  these  found 
life  and  development  in  a  lowe/  plane  of  social 
activity  from  the  one  in  which  she  had  moved  in 
a  spirit  of  proud  self-seeking,  or  idle  indulgence. 


38         THE  SEEN  AND  THE  UNSEEN. 

Her  fall,  like  that  of  many  others,  was  rapid. 
In  the  concussion,  she  was  stunned  and  bewil 
dered;  and  for  a  brief  time  lay  as  one  in  whom 
all  useful  life  was  extinguished.  But,  Mrs.  Lea 
was  a  wife  and  mother.  Her  husband  was  dear 
to  her,  and  so  were  her  children.  Yet,  had  she 
not  filled  out  the  measure  of  her  obligations  as 
wife  and  mother  for  all  the  love  in  her  heart. 
Wealth  had  placed  her  in  a  false  relation  to  com 
mon  duties ;  and  brought  her  within  the  sphere 
of  false  ideas.  Because  she  was  rich,  and  could, 
for  hire,  command  the  services  of  others,  she  had 
permitted  herself  to  accept  the  hurtful  fallacy, 
that  in  useful  employments  there  was  something 
degrading.  And  so  accepting  the  ease  and  idle 
ness  which  were  offered,  she  had  delegated  her 
most  sacred  obligations,  and  left  even  her  tender 
babes  to  the  exclusive  care  of  those  who  worked 
for  hire. 

But  so  sweeping  was  the  disaster  that  fell  upon 
her  husband,  that  every  vestige  of  fortune  disap 
peared,  and,  at  the  age  of  forty,  he  found  himself 


THE    SWEET    FOUNTAIN.  39 

just  on  the  level  from  which  he  started  nearly 
twenty  years  before. 

Six  months  after  the  period  of  wreck,  let  us 
look  in  upon  Mrs.  Lea.  The  cup  of  misfortune 
has  been,  for  all  this  time,  at  her  lips ;  let  us  see 
whether  she  has  found  any  sweetness  in  the 
draught.  The  home  in  which  we  find  her  is 
very  humble  compared  with  the  one  out  of  which 
she  passed,  not  long  before,  with  hardly  restrained 
tears.  She  is  sitting  with  two  children  by  her 
side,  one  a  girl  of  seven  years,  and  the  other  a 
boy  of  nine.  The  boy  has  his  arm  around  her 
neck,  and  is  looking  upon  a  book  that  she  is 
holding.  The  little  girl  stands  in  front,  with  her 
large  eyes,  full  of  light  and  happiness,  fixed  in 
tently  on  her  mother's  face.  Mrs.  Lea  is  reading 
aloud.  There  is  no  sadness  in  her  voice ;  but,  on 
the  contrary,  a  firm  cheerfulness.  Every  now 
and  then  she  pauses,  and  talks  to  the  children 
about  what  she  is  reading.  They  listen  with  the 
deepest  interest.  Now,  in  one  of  these  pausas. 


40        THE  SEEN  AND  THE  UNSEEN. 

and  just  as  the  mother  raises  the  book  to  resume 
her  reading,  the  boy  says, — 

"  I  like  this  home  best,  don't  you,  Florence  ?" 

"Yes,  indeed  I  do;"  the  little  girl  answers, 
with  a  quiver  of  delight  in  her  voice. 

"  How  comes  that  ?  This  home  is  not  so  large, 
nor  so  handsome,  and  we  are  poor."  Mrs.  Lea 
gazes  curiously,  and  not  without  manifest  surprise 
at  her  children. 

There  is  a  deepening  of  color  on  the  boy's  face, 
and  a  slight  hesitation  of  manner.  He  looks  up 
at  his  mother  with  eyes  so  full  of  love  that  it  is 
brimming  them  with  tears. 

"  Why,  my  son  ?  Why  do  you  like  this  home 
the  best  ?" 

"Because  "  The  flush  on  his  face  is 

warmer. 

"Say  it,  dear."  And  Mrs.  Lea  draws  the 
answer. 

"  Because  you  are  always  with  us  now  !"  The 
tears  will  not  hold  back.  There  comes  a  half 


TIIK    SWEET    FOUNTAIN.  41 

hindered  sob,  and  the  boy's  face  goes  down  upon 
his  mother's  breast. 

Was  any  joy  in  all  that  mother's  experience  so 
deep  and  pure  as  the  joy  which  now  rewards  her 
whole  being,  giving  delight  even  to  the  very  bo 
dily  sensations ;  and  there  is  no  power  in  misfor 
tune  to  cast  a  shadow  over  it. 

"  You  love  to  have  mother  with  you  ?" 

"Don't  we,  Florence?"  The  boy  lifts  his 
head,  not  ashamed  of  the  tears,  that  shine  like 
dew-beads  on  his  cheeks,  and  smiles  upon  his 
sister. 

"  Indeed  we  do,"  answers  bright  eyes,  with  a 
fuller  meaning  in  her  tones  than  she  can.  express 
in  words ;  "  and  I  hope  we'll  always  be  poor,  and 
never  have  a  nursery  any  more,  to  be  shut  up  in, 
with  cross,  ugly  nurses." 

A  world  of  new  thoughts  come  pressing  in 
upon  the  mind  of  Mrs.  Lea.  Scales  drop  from 
her  eyes.  She  sees  how  the  true  woman  in  her 
had  been  overlaid  by  fashionable  observances. 
How  the  mere  possession  of  wealth  had  deceived 


42  THE    SEEN    AND    THE    UNSEEN. 

her  into  the  false  idea  that  a  mother  could  trans 
fer  to  a  hireling  the  most  sacred  of  all  duties. 

"Is  the  cup  so  very  bitter?"  Mrs.  Lea  is 
talking  with  herself,  as  she  sits  sewing  upon  a 
garment  for  one  of  her  children.  They  have  left 
her  side,  and  are  at  play  with  themselves.  "  My 
friend  was  right;  there  is  a  sweet  taste  in  the 
water  it  contains.  The  bitterness  was  in  me." 

A  few  hours  later,  coming  in  from  the  small 
chamber,  where  she  has,  after  hearing  their  prayers, 
given  her  children  to  the  arms  of  sleep,  Mrs. 
Lea  stands  by  her  husband,  and  lays  her  hand 
upon  him.  He  looks  up  into  her  face.  His  own 
had  worn  a  shadow  when  he  came  in,  not  long 
before ;  but  it  is  not  shadowed  now. 

"  We  have  not  lost  all,"  he  says. 

"JS"o,  not  all.  Much  is  left — much  that  is 
priceless  in  value." 

"  Love  is  left — and  duty — and  God's  kingdom, 
into  which  we  may  enter  by  love  and  duty." 
The  voice  of  Mr.  Lea  trembles  a  little  with  its 
burden  of  feeling,  in  this  new  utterance  for  him. 


THE    SWEET    FOUNTAIN.  43 

He  has  been  listening  to  the  clear,  yet  reverent, 
voices  of  his  children,  going  up  in  their  evening 
prayer,  and  from  the  chamber  in  which  they 
kneeled  by  their  mother  he  has  gone  back 
through  nearly  forty  years  to  another  chamber 
and  another  mother.  The  treasure-house  of  good 
affections  and  pious  thoughts,  stored  in  infancy 
and  childhood,  is  unlocked  now.  He  has  gone  in 
among  its  precious  things,  and  comprehending 
their  value,  he  says — "  Love  is  left — and  duty — • 
and  God's  kingdom,  into  which  we  may  enter  by 
love  and  duty."  It  was  by  misfortune  that  the 
key  came  into  his  hands.  And  so  in  the  loss  of 
worldly  treasure,  he  has  found  the  way  to  a  store 
house  of  celestial  riches. 

"  When  this  cup  touched  my  lips." — It  is  still 
later  in  the  evening,  and  there  has  been  long  and 
earnest  communion  with  the  past,  the  present,  and 
the  future.  "When  this  cup  touched  my  lips," — 
Mrs.  Lea  is  speaking — "  its  bitterness  made  me 
shudder ;  yet,  now  I  can  see  that  it  brought  me 
water  from  a  sweet  fountain.  I  am  happier  to- 


44         THE  SEEN  AND  THE  UNSEEN. 

night  than  I  was  one  year  ago,  when  no  dread  of 
the  storm  that  has  swept  over  us  sent  a  chill  to 
my  heart.  There  is  a  foundation,  dear  husband, 
on  which  we  may  build  and  rest  secure,  though 
the  floods  beat,  and  the  tempests  rage." 

"  Let  us  build  thereon,"  is  answered  in  low, 
earnest  tones,  "  a  building  that  shall  endure  for 
ever." 


COMFORTED.  45 


IV. 

COMFORTED. 

drawn  curtains — stillness;  such  deep 
^  surrounding  stillness  that  breathing  was  audi 
ble.  In  this  dimness  and  silence  sat,  through 
the  long  days,  refusing  to  be  comforted,  a  mother 
who  had  lost  her  child : — Not  a  child  in  the  in 
nocence  of  infancy,  but  in  the  fragrance  and  pu 
rity  of  young  womanhood. 

A  sorrow  like  this  is  hard  to  bear.  It  touches 
the  very  springs  of  life,  and  dashes  their  waters 
with  bitterness.  It  weighs  down  the  heart  with  a 
burden  that  makes  every  pulsation  weak  and 
painful.  Clouds  envelop  the  sun — and  the  earth 
is  in  shadow. 

"  If  I  could  only  see  her  in  my  dreams,"  said 
Mrs.  Ellsworth  to  a  friend,  who  had  left  the  out 
side  cheerful  world,  and  come  into  the  gloomy 


46         THE  SEEN  AND  THE  UNSEEN. 

apartment  where  the  bereaved  one  sat  nursing  her 
sorrow.  "  If  I  could  only  see  her  in  my  dreams, 
it  would  be  something.  But  since  the  day  her 
face  was  shut  from  me  by  the  coffin  lid,  neither 
to  outward  sight  nor  inward  vision  has  it  again 
been  visible.  Through  how  many  hours  of  the 
night  have  I  kept  awake,  hoping  that  I  might  see 
her  in  the  darkness.  I  was  not  afraid.  Dear, 
dear  child !  She  has  gone  from  me  as  completely 
as  if  I  were  sailing  over  an  ocean,  and  she  had 
dropped  down  into  its  fathomless  depths.  Is 
there  no  return  of  our  beloved?  My  faith  begins 
to  fail.  I  had  not  thought  of  the  spiritual  world 
as  very  distant.  T  had  believed  the  separating 
veil  but  thin.  Thought  gives  presence,  and  love 
conjunction,  as  to  the  spirit,  whether  we  be  in  the 
body  or  out  of  the  body ;  so  I  had  said,  and  so  I 
had  believed.  But  now  I  sit  and  think  of  Mar 
garet  for  hours,  yet  do  not  perceive  her  presence." 
The  friend  made  no  attempt  to  meet  the  state 
of  Mrs.  Ellsworth  by  theory  or  doctrine.  She 
understood  her  case,  and  knew  that  there  was  no 


COMFORTED.  47 

comfort  in  words.  So  after  sitting  silent  for  a. 
little  while,  she  said — 

"  You  knew  Mrs.  Garland  ?" 

"Yes." 

"  Have  you  heard  about  her  ?" 

"  No !  what  about  her  ?" 

"  Not  that  her  husband  was  killed  at  Gettys 
burg?" 

"  Why,  no !     Killed  at  Gettysburg !" 

"Yes;  and  what  makes  the  case  sadder,  his 
body  could  not  be  found.  She  will  never  know 
the  place  of  his  burial !" 

"  Have  you  seen  her  ?"  asked  Mrs.  Ellsworth. 

"No;  my  acquaintance  was  too  slight  to  war 
rant  intrusion.  But  you  were  an  intimate  friend, 
I  think." 

"We  have  been  quite  intimate.  Poor  Mrs. 
Garland  !  How  does  she  bear  this  terrible  afflic 
tion  ?" 

"I  have  not  happened  to  meet  with  any  one 
who  has  visited  her." 

Mi's.  Ellsworth,  who  had  been  sitting  in  a  Ian- 


48         THE  SEEN  AND  THE  UNSEEN. 

guid  attitude,  almost  too  spiritless  to  move,  loft 
her  chair,  and  began  walking  about  the  room.  A 
new  interest  had  been  awakened  in  her  mind. 
The  grief  of  a  friend  had  for  the  moment  over 
shadowed  her  own. 

"You  will  go  and  see  her?"  suggested  the 
visitor. 

Mrs.  Ellsworth  stood  still.  She  had  not  been 
out  of  her  house — scarcely  out  of  her  chamber — 
since  her  daughter's  death. 

"  The  words  of  a  very  near  friend  give  comfort 
in  sorrow.  The  heart  is  sustained  by  sympathy," 

"  We  are  near  and  dear  friends ;  her  affliction 
is  heavier  than  mine;  I  will  go  to  her,"  said  Mrs. 
Ellsworth. 

Temperaments  are  different,  and  so  are  the 
principles  on  which  character  is  based.  No  two 
minds  bear  sorrow  alike.  The  heart  of  Mrs. 
Ellsworth  failed  her  as  she  crossed  the  threshold 
of  her  friend's  dwelling.  She  had  come  to  offer 
the  comfort  of  her  presence — not  to  deal  in  fruit 
less  words — and  now  she  felt  that  even  her  pre- 


COMFORTED.  49 

sence  could  only  add  gloom  to  the  darkness  in 
which  Mrs.  Garland  was  enshrouded.  A  few 
moments  of  waiting,  and  then  a  servant  invited 
her  up  stairs.  The  chamber  in  which  she  found 
her  friend  was  not  in  twilight  shadows,  but  cheer 
ful  with  tempered  light.  As  she  entered,  she  met 
a  pale,  suffering  face,  and  eyes  running  over. 
The  face  hid  itself  on  her  bosom.  Tears  mingled 
with  tears,  and  sobs  answered  to  sobs. 

"  It  was  so  kind  in  you  to  come,"  said  Mrs. 
Garland,  as  they  sat  down  together.  "I  have 
thought  of  you  so  many  times,  and  wished  to  see 
you." 

A  baby  sat  on  the  floor — a  baby  ten  months 
old.  His  nurse  had  gone  down  stairs.  He  was 
half  alarmed  at  the  presence  of  a  stranger,  and 
put  up  his  hands  to  be  taken.  His  mother  lifted 
him  into  her  arms,  and  he  nestled  his  head  close 
down  against  her  bosom,  but  with  his  eyes  on 
Mrs.  Ellsworth's  face. 

"  Dear  baby !"  said  Mrs.  Ellsworth,  the  mois 
ture  glistening  in  her  eyes. 


50  THE    SEEN    AND   THE    UNSEEN. 

"Margaret  loved  him  so!  I  never  look  at 
him  that  I  do  not  think  of  Margaret,"  returned 
Mrs.  Garland.  "And  he  was  so  fond  of  her— 
dear  girl  that  she  was !  I  dreamed  of  her  last 
night.  She  was  standing  in  this  very  room,  with 
Eddy  in  her  arms.  How  plainly  I  can  se« 

her!" 

"  Oh,  I  would  give  all  I  have  in  the  world  for 
just  such  a  dream  !— to  see  her,  even  in  my  sleep. 
Oh,  yes,  she  loved  Eddy.  Come,  darling."  And 
Mrs.  Ellsworth,  in  whose  heart  was  born  at  that 
instant  a  tender  yearning  towards  the  child,  held 
out  her  hands.  The  baby  felt  the  new-born  love, 
and  responded  by  leaping  into  Mrs.  Ellsworth's 
arms,  and  laying  his  head  down  sweetly  on  her 
bosom. 

"Just  so  he  would  spring  into  Margaret's 
arms,"  said  the  mother. 

"She  loved  all  little  children.  A  baby  was 
her  delight."  And  something  of  that  very  de 
light  transfused  itself  through  the  soul  of  Mrs. 
Ellsworth.  Since  her  own  little  ones  lay  on  her 


COMFORTED.  51 

breast,  she  had  never  perceived  such  beauty  in  a 
baby. 

And  Margaret  had  loved  this  very  baby  so  ten 
derly  !  had  so  often  held  him  in  her  arms,  and 
fell  his  head  against  her  bosom  as  she  felt  it  now ! 
A  thrill  of  strange  pleasure  ran  along  her  nerves. 
She  had  an  intimation  of  Margaret's  presence 
such  as  had  not  been  given  since  the  veil  of  death 
dropped  down  between  them. 

"  She  so  tenderly  loved  little  children  while  in 
this  world,"  said  Mrs.  Garland,  "that,  I  doubt 
not,  God  has  placed  her  in  the  midst  of  them. 
Their  pure  spirits  are  going  upwards  daily  and 
hourly.  Angels  are  gathering  them,  like  fra 
grant  harvests,  from  thousands  of  earthly  homes, 
and  garnering  them  in  heaven.  I  have  often  pic 
tured  Margaret  to  my  thought,  surrounded  by  ba 
bies  and  little  children,  in  ministering  to  whom 
she  found  a  purer  and  more  unfailing  delight 
than  she  ever  knew  upon  the  earth." 

The  countenance  of  Mrs.  Ellsworth  lightened. 
Her  eyes  glanced  upwards ;  the  close  compression 


5J         THE  SEEN  AND  THE  UNSEEN. 

01  her  quivering  lips  gave  way  to  something  like 
a  smile. 

"  While  my  thought  has  dwelt  too  often  with 
the  body  in  the  grave,"  she  answered,  "even 
when  it  followed  her  across  the  dividing  river,  it 
realized  no  actual  condition  of  life — saw  her  in  no 
congenial  associations — realized  nothing.  Dear 
friend !  you  have  put  stones  beneath  my  sinking 
feet.  It  may  not  be  just  as  you  have  imagined ; 
but,  one  thing  is  plain  to  me  now — the  pure  and 
innocent  loves  of  her  heart  will  not  flow  forth  to 
be  lost  like  water  in  sand." 

"  No,  no,"  said  Mrs.  Garland.  "  Defect,  im 
pediment,  hindrance  are  of  this  world.  They  are 
born  of  evil.  But,  in  heaven,  every  pure  de 
sire — every  tender  love — is  gratified.  Let  our 
souls  take  up  their  rest  in  this ;  let  us  find  some 
relief  to  pain  in  the  sure  faith  that  it  is  well  with 
our  departed  ones ;  and  that,  if  they  come  to  us 
in  spirit,  they  will  be  able  to  draw  nearer  if  our 
souls  are  calm  and  resigned  to  God's  will,  than  if 


COMFORTED.  53 

they  were  shrouded  in  despair,  and  turbulent 
with  complaint." 

"Yes,  yes.  It  must  be  so,"  returned  Mrs. 
Ellsworth.  "A  new  suggestion  comes  to  me. 
Have  I  not  so  hidden  my  spirit  away  amid  pall 
and  cloud,  that  my  child  could  not  find  me? 
Her  love  is  still  the  same.  Her  thought  could 
not  have  turned  itself  from  me.  Why  have  I 
had  no  sign  of  her  presence  ?" 

Mrs.  Garland  reached  her  hands  for  the  child, 
who  was  still  in  Mrs.  Ellsworth's  arms;  but  Mrs. 
Ellsworth  drew  him  closer,  saying : 

"  Let  him  remain — dear  baby  !  I  have  hardly 
acknowledged  it  to  myself,  but  since  he  has  been 
lying  here,  Margaret  has  seemed  almost  in  bodily 
presence  beside  me.  I  came  to  grieve  with  you, 
dear  friend,  in  your  deeper  sorrow,  and  lo,  my 
heart  has  been  comforted  !" 

"  I  have  been  hiding  away  from  my  darling," 
said  Mrs.  Ellsworth,  talking  with  herself  as  she 
went  homeward.  "  I  have  so  darkened  all  the 
chambers  in  which  my  soul  dwelt,  that  she  could 

5* 


54         THE  SEEN  AND  THE  UNSEEN. 

not  find  me.  I  must  open  the  windows ;  I  must 
let  in  the  light ;  I  must  clothe  my  spirits  with 
fairer  garments.  I  must  no  longer  think  of  my 
loss,  but  of  her  gain.  As  God's  kingdom  in  the 
heavens  into  which  she  has  been  born  is  a  king 
dom  of  mutual  love  and  service,  my  life  must 
dwell  amid  useful  things  if  I  would  be  in  associa 
tion  with  angels — and  she  is  an  angel." 

That  night  she  had  a  dream  of  Margaret.  She 
came  to  her  in  spotless  garments,  holding  little 
Eddy  in  her  arms,  and  smiling  down  upon  him 
with  looks  of  ineffable  sweetness.  How  real  it 
all  was ! 

"Take  him,  dear  mother!"  She  held  him 
forth,  and  he  sprang  to  the  arms  of  Mrs.  Ells 
worth. 

The  smile  on  Margaret's  face  grew  tenderer,  as 
she  said  : 

"  Of  such  is  the  kingdom  of  heaven." 

The  dream  passed.  Morning  came.  But  a 
sense  of  Margaret's  presence  remained.  If  she 
thought  of  her  sadly ;  if  she  repined  at  her  loss  ; 


COMFORTED.  55 

if  she  sat  down  with  folded  hands,  gathering 
gloomy  states  around  her,  this  sense  of  presence 
began  to  fade.  The  departed  one  seemed  to 
move  afar  off.  But,  in  all  cheerful  work,  in  all 
self-forgetfulness,  in  all  service  for  another,  she 
felt  her  very  near.  Sometimes  she  could  say : 
"  Margaret  has  been  with  me  all  day  long." 
And  so  she  was  comforted.  In  an  almost  con 
strained  effort  to  leave  her  own  sorrow,  and  try 
to  soften  the  pain  that  lay  close  and  hard  upon 
another  spirit,  she  had  found  the  way  of  consola 
tion. 


56  T1IE    SEEN    AND    THE    UNSEEN. 


r. 

OUT  OF  TUNE. 

"  TF  I  had  leisure,  quiet,  repose !  If  I  codld 
escape  from  this  fret  and  fever  of  life — from 
this  daily  contact  with  things  that  chafe  and 
worry ;  that  hurt  and  agitate.  Ah,  my  friend  ! 
There  is  something  wrong.  Something  out  of 
joint  in  the  constitution  of  society,  when  its  ac 
tion  is  so  painfully  felt.  If  I  were  as  immovable 
as  stone;  or  if  my  nerves  were  steel,  I  might  pass 
through  the  world  with  unruffled  feelings.  But 
I  am  a  bundle  of  sensitive  fibres,  which  answer, 
like  a  finely-strung  instrument,  to  every  touch  ; 
giving  melody  to  sort-falling  and  skillful  fingers, 
and  discord  whenever  a  rough  hand  invades." 

"A  living  soul,  fearfully  and  wonderfully 
made,"  I  answered.  "A  delicately-wrought  in 
strument,  created  for  choral  harmonies." 


OUT    OF    TUNE.       .  57 

My  friend  looked  at  me  with  a  face  that  ques 
tioned  as  to  the  meaning  of  what  I  had  said. 

"  It  is  not  escape  from  society  that  you  need," 
I  remarked. 

"  What  then  ?" 

"  The  chording  of  your  instrument  with  the 
grand  life-chorus.  Drop  out  of  your  place — go 
away  by  yourself — and  you  will  be  as  a  solitary 
hautboy,  a  trombone,  a  flute,  or  whatever  the  in 
strument  may  be  to  which  you  correspond  in  the 
living  orchestral  world." 

"Ingenious  and  fanciful.  But,  accepting  your 
thought  as  true,  how  can  an  instrument,  finely  - 
strung,  find  its  true  relation  and  power  where  all 
is  discord  ?" 

"  Impossible  in  the  nature  of  things,"  was  my 
reply.  "But  there  is  a  grand  life-chorus,  into 
which  all  human  instruments,  if  in  tune,  may 
come,  each  in  its  turn  giving  increase  to  the 
harmony." 

"  My  senses  are  not  acute  enough  to  perceive 
this  harmony,"  returned  my  friend.  "  I  listen  j 


58  THE    SEEN    AND    THE    UNSEEN. 

but  to  my  ears  come  shocks  of  discord,  thai  send 
thrills  of  pain  along  the  strings  of  my  soul.  For 
me  there  is  no  hope  but  in  escape  from  this  Babel 
of  sounds.  I  must  get  away,  and  live  cl«.«eer  to 
nature.  I  must  talk  with  the  babbling  streams ; 
with  the  birds;  with  insects;  with  sweet  airs,  per 
fume-laden  ;  .with  forest  and  sky ;  with  all  things, 
in  fact,  which  are  in  the  order  of  their  creation, 
and  so  image  the  Creator.  Oh,  how  I  am  long 
ing  to  escape !  And  I  will  escape !" 

My  friend  was  in  earnest,  and  so,  seeking  for 
opportunity,  he  made  his  escape,  going  from  the 
city  in  which  his  life  had  been  passed,  far  away 
into  the  country,  that  he  might  stand  face  to  face 
wtth  nature,  and  so  be  in  harmony  with  her. 
He  found  leisure,  quiet,  repose.  The  stream 
which  had,  almost  from  its  source,  moved  along 
in  a  free  current — now  hurrying  past  flowery 
banks,  now  flashing  back  the  sunlight  in  silvery 
gleams  as  it  swept  over  stony  places  or  down 
rocky  heights — composed  itself  to  sleep  in  a  tnn- 
quil  lake. 


"The  smooth,  tree-encircled  lake  impresses  you  with  a  sense  of 
tranquillity." — Page  59. 


OUT    OF    TUNE.  59 

lie  found  it  very  pleasant  and  peaceful  for  a 
time.  The  rush,  the  hurry,  the  change  were 
over.  No  more  discords — no  more  strivings — no 
more  contact  with  rudeness  and  coarseness,  with 
all-absorbing  selfishness. 

"  I  am  at  one  with  nature,"  he  wrote  me,  soon 
after  the  change.  "All  her  peace,  and  order,  and 
harmony  flow  into  my  life.  She  speaks  to  me, 
and  I  understand  her  language.  She  takes  me 
by  the  hand,  and  leads  me  into  green  pastures 
and  beside  still  waters.  I  never  understood  life 
before." 

The  smooth,  tree-encircled  lake  impresses  you 
with  a  sense  of  tranquility.  You  look  upon  its 
calm  surface,  and  feel  its  quiet  influence  per 
vading  your  soul.  But,  as  you  gaze  down  into 
its  bosom,  you  begin  to  have  an  impression  of 
something  hidden  and  hurtful ;  of  a  place  in 
which  evil  things  may  be  at  work.  Though  the 
water  looks  clear,  it  has  nothing  of  that  crystal 
line  life  so  beautiful  in  the  flowing  stream. 
Dark  masses  of  something  you  cannot  make  out, 


60         THE  SEEN  AND  THE  UNSEEN. 

lie  at  the  bottom.  Around  the  edges,  weeds  grow 
in  wild  luxuriance.  You  begin  to  feel  a  slug 
gishness  in  the  air,  and  to  perceive  stifling  odors 
from  rank  vegetation.  How  deep  and  exhila 
rating  is  every  breath,  as  you  come  into  the  open 
fields  or  ascend  some  mountain  paths  again  !  An 
hour  by  the  still  lake  has  sufficed.  It  would  be 
death  in  life  to  dwell  there. 

Very  pleasant  for  a  time  my  friend  found  it  in 
his  new  dwelling-place,  far  away  from  the  great 
centres  of  humanity.  The  agitations  that  swept, 
sympathetically,  from  circle  to  circle  of  life,  did 
not  find  him  out  in  his  calm  retreat — never  stirred 
his  heart,  reminding  him  that  he  was  a  member 
of  the  great  body  of  the  people.  He  was  the  still 
lake,  reflecting  sky  and  tree,  and  holding  peace  in 
his  bosom.  The  still  lake  of  the  soul  is  arfected 
by  moral  laws  in  strict  correspondence  with  natu 
ral  laws.  As  it  was  with  the  lake  on  the  lower 
and  material  plane,  so  it  must  be  on  a  higher  and 
spiritual  plane.  There  was  no  escape  for  him. 
Reason  would  have  taught  him  this,  if  he  could 


OUT    OF    TUNE.  61 

have  gone  so  far  above  his  sensuous  self  as  to 
comprehend  her  clear  inductions. 

I  did  not  meet  him  again  for  years  after  he 
dropped  away  from  our  social  and  business  world, 
lost  to  us  as  an  instrument  from  an  orchestra,  or  a 
fine  voice  from  a  choir.  There  was  gain  on  nei 
ther  side,  I  think;  but  loss  to  both.  A  few  let 
ters  had  passed  between  us ;  then  communication 
ceased.  Our  minds  were  not  in  harmony — they 
did  not  chord  in  the  music  of  life. 

Two  or  three  months  ago,  I  was  in  a  neighbor 
ing  city.  The  call  for  a  public  meeting  attracted 
my  attention,  and  I  went  to  note  the  proceedings. 
The  organization  was  going  on  as  I  entered  the 
hall,  and  greatly  to  my  surprise,  I  saw  my  friend 
take  the  chair.  I  could  not  be  mistaken  in  him, 
for  his  physique  was  peculiar.  If  I  had  been  in 
doubt,  his  voice  would  have  assured  me.  Time, 
and  life,  had  been  at  work  with  him,  and  through 
both,  his  true  manhood  was  coming  out.  There 
was  an  air  of  strength  r.bout  him — of  self-poise — 
of  will  that  knoweth  no  hindrance.  I  lost  half 


62  THE    SEEN    AND    THE    UNSEEN. 

my  interest  in  the  meeting,  because  of  interest  in 
my  friend.  How  quietly,  yet  with  a  full  con 
sciousness  of  what  the  assembling  involved,  did 
he,  as  chairman,  hold  all  its  proceedings  in  the 
bonds  of  that  rational  order  out  of  which  so 
much  right  action  comes.  He  gave  rythm  to  the 
whole. 

When  I  stood  face  to  face  with  him,  grasping 
his  hands,  and  looking  into  his  clear,  thoughtful 
eyes,  I  saw  that  he  was  a  new  man.  That  there 
had  been  deaths  and  births — losses  and  gains — 
the  laying  aside  of  lower  things,  and  the  putting 
on  of  what  were  higher  and  purer. 

"  I  thought  you  were  vegetating  in  your  coun 
try  hermitage,"  I  said  to  him,  "  and  lo !  I  find 
you  in  the  very  heart,  as  it  were,  of  the  world  of 
action." 

"  Come  home  with  me,"  he  answered.  "  We 
must  talk  about  that.  I  have  thought  of  you  a 
great  many  times." 

I  went  with  him  and  passed  the  night.  He 
was  in  business  again.  The  fret  and  fever  of  life 


OUT   OF    TUNE.  63 

4 

were  all  about  him.  He  was  once  nore  in  con 
tact  with  things  that  chafe  and  worry,  that  hurt 
and  agitate — if  we  will  let  them. 

"  Tell  me,"  I  said,  "  of  your  states  and  experi 
ences  during  the  time  you  lived  separate  from  the 
world,  and  alone  with  nature.  You  wrote  me 
that  you  were  'at  one'  with  her;  that  all  her 
peace  and  harmony  and  order  flowed  into  your 
life ;  that  she  spoke  to  you  in  a  language  clearly 
understood;  that  she  was  leading  you  in  green 
pastures  and  beside  still  waters." 

He  dropped  his  eyes,  and  looked  thoughtful. 

"A  mere  fancy,"  he  replied.  "You  know  in 
what  state  of  mind  I  broke  away  from  society — 
dropped  out  of  the  orchestra,  to  use  your  own 
figure,  and  went  away  with  my  solitary  instru 
ment,  to  enjoy  its  music  alone.  An  athlete,  ex 
hausted  in  the  arena,  finds  sweet  repose  on  a  soft 
bed  in  a  quiet  chamber.  It  fills,  for  a  time,  his 
idea  of  heaven.  But,  when  the  weary  limbs  have 
rested,  and  every  organ  and  fibre  is  flushed  with 
blood  and  animal  spirits,  the  chamber  becomes  as 


64         THE  SEEN  AND  THE  UNSEEN. 

a  prison.  He  could  not  live  there.  He  would 
grow  sick  for  want  of  freedom  and  action.  A  si 
milar  state  was  mine.  The  peaceful  retreat  into 
which  I  withdrew  myself,  was  as  the  bed  and 
chamber  to  the  strained  athlete. 

"  There  was  far  more  of  fancy  than  experience," 
he  continued,  "  in  those  fine  words  about  my  in 
telligent  intercourse  with  nature.  I  expressed 
what  I  believed  possible,  rather  than  what  I  had 
experienced.  It  seemed  to  me  that  I  was  stand 
ing  at  the  door  opening  into  the  arena  of  nature, 
and  that  a  hand  was  moving  it  on  the  inner  side. 
My  heart  bounded  in  confident  anticipations — 
which  were  not  realized.  The  door  never  turned 
on  its  hinges — the  mystery  of  nature  was  not  re 
vealed.  I  soon  wearied  of  asking  vague  ques 
tions  of  the  trees  and  stones — of  the  birds  and 
brooks — of  the  earth  and  sky.  If  they  answered 
me,  I  did  not  comprehend  their  language.  The 
peace,  the  beauty,  the  order  o^  external  life,  did 
not  long  transfuse  themselves  into  my  soul — nay, 
transfuse  is  not  the  word — did  not  long  reflect 


OUT   OF    TUNE.  fw 

themselves  from  the  surface.  The  old  disquiet 
came  back  upon  me ;  and  I  awoke,  gradually,  to 
the  truth,  that  disturbing  causes  were  within  me, 
rather  than  without ;  that  my  instrument  was  not 
in  tune.  It  was  a  painful  awakening.  After 
thjs,  nature,  which  at  first  seemed  flushing  with 
intelligence,  grew  stupid  and  dumb.  I  knew  no 
thing  of  botany,  of  mineralogy,  of  entomology ; 
and  the  science  wanting,  there  was  no  basis  for  a 
true  interest  in  things  below  or  above  the  earth's 
surface. 

"A  few  years  of  dull,  weary,  soul-corroding 
life,  and  I  came  back  into  the  world  again,  some 
thing  wiser  than  when  I  went  away  to  live  by 
myself.  I  do  not  see  that  we  have  changed  in 
anything  since  my  first  experience;  and  yet  I  find 
my  action  accordant  with  the  general  action  in 
hundreds  of  cases  where  it  was  discordant  before. 
The  change  is  in  myself;  my  instrument  is  in 
better  tune,  and  chords  more  perfectly  with  other 
instruments  in  the  grand  chorus  of  life.  There 
is,  I  find,  a  great  deal  around  us  that  we  speak 

6*  E 


66         THE  SEEN  AND  THE  UNSEEN. 

of  as  discord,  when  the  fault  is  in  ourselves.  Of 
one  thing  I  am  satisfied,  and  that  is,  that  in 
the  great  social  body,  marred  and  diseased  as  it 
is,  there  is  a  life  as  harmonious  and  reciprocal  as 
in  the  single  body  of  a  man — a  life  inflowing 
from  the  source  of  life,  and  order,  and  by  virtue 
of  that  Source,  in  the  perpetual  endeavor  to  re 
form,  restore,  and  bring  back  humanity  to  its  lost 
image  and  likeness  of  God.  We  see  this  in  the 
effort  of  every  community  to  get  just  laws,  and 
have  them  executed  for  the  common  good  ;  in  the 
devotion  of  men  to  useful  employment,  each  in 
his  sphere ;  in  concerted  benevolent,  sanitary  and 
corrective  movements,  by  which  diseased  and 
hurtful  things  may  be  cast  out.  Now,  just  in  the 
degree  that  each  individual  brings  himself  into 
harmony  with  this  higher  circle  of  life,  which  is 
common  to  the  whole,  will  he  find  discord  and 
obstruction  ceasing.  The  world  will  put  on  a 
new  face  for  him.  She  will  speak  to  him  in  a 
different  language.  He  will  not  need  to  go  away 
into  the  still  places  of  jiature  to  find  rest  and 


OUT   OF   TUNE.  67 

peace,  for  they  will  abide  with  him.  But,  if  he 
narrow  his  life  down  to  the  merest  selfish  ends, 
seeking,  as  some  disordered  member  of  the  body, 
to  appropriate  only,  and  not  to  give — to  act  for 
himself  alone,  and  not  in  concert  with  the  whole 
for  the  health  and  well-being  of  the  whole — then 
he  will  be  out  of  tune.  His  life  will  be  jarred  by 
perpetual  discords,  and  he  will  vainly  imagine 
that  he  is  suffering  from  defect  of  harmony  in 
society,  when  the  defect  is  in  himself. 

"  This,"  added  my  friend,  "  is  the  lesson  I  have 
learned.  Taking  my  peculiar  mental  construction, 
there  was  no  way  for  me  to  learn  it  but  by  the 
hard  one  of  experience.  I  had  to  drop  out  of  the 
orchestra  and  try  my  instrument  alone.  What 
poor  music  I  made,  sitting  afar  off  in  solitary 
places  by  myself!  I  thought  it  passing  sweet  at 
first;  but  its  thinness  and  monotony  soon  wearied, 
and  at  last  disgusted  me.  I  longed  for  choral 
harmonies.  How  they  ravished  my  ears  when 
their  chorded  delights  broke  into  them  again !" 


68         THE  SEEN  AND  THE  UNSEEN. 


VI. 

SUNDAY   RELIGION. 

"  "I  T ERE  Sunday  religion,  and  not  worth  any- 

•*•"•  thing,"  said  a  lady,  whose  age  and  appear 
ance  gave  weight  to  her  words.  The  remark 
seemed  to  occasion  something  like  surprise  in  the 
little  group  around  her. 

"What  do  you  mean  by  Sunday  religion?" 
was  asked. 

"Pious  observances  of  any  kind — singing, 
praying,  listening  to  sermons,  reading  the  Bible, 
receiving  the  sacraments,  and  the  like." 

"And  do  you  mean  to  say  that  these  are  worth 
nothing  as  means  to  the  attainment  of  a  heavenly 
life?" 

"No;  far  from  it.  They  are  of  inestimable 
value ;  I  might  almost  say  of  essential  value." 

"Then,"  said  the  other,  "I  am  at  a  loss  to 


SUNDAY    RELIGION.  69 

comprehend  your  meaning.  Sunday  religion  not 
worth  anything !" 

"Mere  Sunday  religion,  I  said,  which  is  about 
all  the  religion  possessed  by  the  large  class  to 
whom  I  was  referring.  An  exterior  of  sanctity, 
without  a  living  principle  of  charity  in  the  heart ; 
that  is  the  Sunday  religion  I  meant  to  condemn." 

"There  is  too  much  of  that,  I  fear,"  was  an 
swered. 

"  Too  much,  alas !" 

"  It  is  a  self-deceiving  form  of  hypocrisy,"  re 
marked  one  of  the  company. 

"And  as  such,"  said  the  lady,  "without  any 
saving  principle.  Men  and  women  may  sing  and 
pray  devoutly — read  the  wrord  of  God  in  all  so 
lemnity  of  utterance — hear  preachings — receive 
the  sacred  correspondential  elements  in  the  com 
munion — give  of  their  substance  to  churches — 
and  yet  be  in  the  broad  way  to  destruction,  in 
stead  of  in  the  narrow  way  to  heaven.  All  these 
things  will  be  as  nothing  if  the  week-day  life  fail. 
If,  from  Monday  morning  until  Saturday  night, 


70         THE  SEEN  AND  THE  UNSEEN. 

love  of  self  and  the  world  rule  the  whole  mind, 
all  Sunday  service  will  go  for  nothing  in  our  ac 
count  with  heaven.  In  every  day  of  every  week 
we  are  writing  down  that  history  of  our  lives  by 
which  we  shall  be  judged  when  this  mortal  puts 
on  immortality ;  and  will  not  six  days  of  God- 
forgetting  selfishness  stand  in  fearful  contrast  with 
a  Sunday  record  of  constrained  worship  ?" 

"Must  religion  come  down  into  everything?" 
was  asked.  "  How  can  you  bring  piety  into 
trade  ?  It  does  not  follow,  because  a  man  is  ear 
nest  in  his  employment,  that  he  is  sinning  against 
God.  Nothing  can  be  done  rightly,  unless  the 
mind  goes  into  it  with  full  vigor ;  and  a  man  can 
not  think  of  business  and  religion  at  the  same 
time.  He  who  made  us,  comprehended  this,  and 
set  apart  one  day  in  seven  for  religious  thoughts 
and  duties.  I'm  afraid  you  depress  the  value  of 
our  Sabbath  ceremonials." 

"  It  is  not  in  my  heart  to  do  so,  for  I  find  in 
them  both  help  and  comfort,"  replied  the  lady, 
whose  remark  had  led  the  conversation  in  this  di- 


SUNDAY    RELIGION.  71 

rection.  "  Of  all  good  gifts  from  our  heavenly 
Father,  I  prize,  as  among  the  bast,  this  Chris 
tian  Sabbath,  when  we  may  lay  down  our  bur 
dens  of  care  and  work,  and  gather  up  strength, 
hope,  encouragement,  and  lessons  of  spiritual  wis 
dom,  by  which  to  lead  truer,  because  more  unself 
ish,  lives,  in  the  days  to  come.  But,  if  it  is  used 
as  the  only  means  of  advancing  heavenward, 
through  devotional  acts,  and  neither  God  nor  the 
neighbor  be  regarded  in  the  weeks  that  follow, 
then  will  its  services  be  in  vain.  There  must  be 
religion  in  business,  or  there  can  be  no  religion  at 
all." 

"  I  am  at  fault  as  to  your  entire  meaning,"  said 
the  one  who  had  previously  spoken.  "  Religion 
in  business !  that  is  a  novel  proposition.  Would 
you  have  a  man  praying  and  psalm-singing  in  his 
shop,  store,  office,  or  manufactory  ?" 

"No." 

"  Then,  how  is  he  to  bring  down  his  religion 
into  his  business  ?" 

"  Religion  is  life,"  was  answered  j  "  that  is,  a 


72         THE  SEEN  AND  THE  UNSEEN. 

life  in  obedience  to  the  precepts  of  religion. 
Now,  men  live  through  the  week  as  well  as  on 
Sunday — in  their  stores  and  shops  as  well  as  in 
their  homes  or  closets;  and  they  can  lead  only 
one  of  two  lives — religious  or  irreligious — the  life 
of  heaven  or  the  life  of  hell.  This  is  true  of 
every  day,  and  hour,  and  moment.  Think — 
must  it  not  be  so?" 

There  followed  a  thoughtful  silence. 

"  What  I  mean  by  religion  in  business,"  said 
the  lady,  "is  that  justice  and  integrity  which  ne 
ver  loses  sight  of  the  neighbor's  well  being — 
which  is  based  on  the  divine  law,  '  Whatsoever 
ye  would  that  men  should  do  unto  you,  do  ye 
even  so  to  them.'  It  is  in  business  that  men 
come  in  contact  with  men  under  the  peculiar 
temptations  that  love  of  self  inspires;  and  here  it 
is  that  they  are  more  especially  called  upon  to 
live  that  life  of  religious  trust  in  God  by  which 
they  can  overcome  the  evil  inclinings  of  their 
hearts.  In  church,  and  on  the  business-free  Sab 
bath,  they  are  not  in  the  soul-trying  temptations 


SUNDAY    RELIGION.  7c! 

that  meet  them  in  their  world's  work,  and  the 
armor  of  religion  is  not  so  needful  for  defence. 
It  is  to  him  who  overcometh  that  the  promise  is 
given ;  and  life's  battle  is  not  on  the  Sabbath,  nor 
in  church.  Our  way  to  heaven  is  through  the 
world.  A  Sunday  religion,  therefore,  which  is 
not  the  complement  of  religion  in  daily  life,  is  of 
no  avail  whatever,  and  to  them  who  trust  therein 
will  come  a  sad  awakening  in  that  time,  when  all 
hearts  will  be  seen  as  they  are.  God  is  a  spirit, 
and  they  who  worship  him  must  worship  him  in 
spirit  and  in  truth.  It  is  the  heart's  quality  that 
gives  acceptance  in  the  eyes  of  God — not  prostra 
tions  of  the  body,  nor  any  mere  acts  of  devotion. 
There  can  be  no  true  external  worship  without 
the  internal  worship  of  a  good  life ;  and  a  good 
life  consists  in  a  faithful  and  just  discharge  of  all 
our  neighborly  duties  from  a  principle  of  obedi 
ence  to  Divine  laws.  When  such  obedience  is 
rendered,  external  Sabbath  worship  will  flow  in 
natural  sequence,  and  be  a  form  of  that  genuine 
worship  which  brings  us  near  to  God,  and  fills  us 


74  THE    SEEN    AND    THE    UNSEEN. 

with  his  spirit — a  spirit  not  of  self-love  and  nar 
row  self-seeking,  but  of  genuine  regard  for  others. 
When  that  spirit  rules  in  a  man's  heart,  he  will 
be  just  in  dealing,  and  careful  that  no  one  has 
loss  through  his  gain.  He  will  take  no  advan 
tages  in  trade,  nor  profit  through  another's  igno 
rance.  Charity,  or  neighborly  good-will,  will 
make  one  with  his  piety.  In  the  ground  of  love 
for  the  neighbor,  whom  he  has  seen,  will  the 
seeds  of  love  to  God,  whom  he"  hath  not  seen,  be 
planted." 

"  You  make  the  way  to  heaven  very  narrow. 
Who  can  walk  in  it?"  said  one  of  the  company. 

A  sigh  came  faintly  from  the  lips  of  the  lady 
\vho  had  spoken  so  wisely  and  well. 

"  If  we  would  go  to  heaven  we  must  come  into 
the  life  of  heaven,"  she  said,  "  and  that  is  a  life 
of  mutual  love  and  service.  God  is  love — not 
self-love,  such  as  we  cherish,  but  a  love  of  doing 
good.  And  the  religion  that  leads  to  heaven  is 
an  everyday  religion  of  good-will  to  the  neigh 
bor,  showing  itself  in  justice,  integrity,  truth, 


SUNDAY    RELIGION.  75 

honor,  and  genuine  humanity.  Without  this  re 
ligion,  Sunday  worship  is  nothing ;  with  it,  con 
junction  with  heaven,  and  a  joy  unspeakable. 
If  the  way  is  narrow,  it  is,  nevertheless,  the  way 
marked  out  by  God  himself.  It  is  not  my  way — 
but  his.  And  it  is  hard  only  because  self-love  is 
strong.  Deny  this  self-love,  and  heavenly  love 
will  flow  in.  Then  the  way  will  become  plain, 
and  its  rough  places  smooth.  Flowers  will  spring 
along  its  margin,  as  it  winds  upward  and  upward 
into  clear  mountain  regions,  from  which  new 
worlds  of  beauty  will  open  successively  to  the 
vision.  So  I  read  the  laws  of  heavenly  life,  as 
written  in  God's  word." 


76         THE  SEEN  AND  THE  UNSEEN 


VII. 

THE  LIFE  TO  COME. 

"  mHANK  God  for  the  life  to  come !"  said  a 
-  pale,  sad-looking  woman,  in  a  voice  marked 
less  by  the  patience  of  Christian  hope,  than  by 
fretfulness  and  despondency. 

"  What  life  to  come,  Aunt  Lucy  ?" 

The  questioner  was  a  slender  girl,  not  over  se 
venteen  or  eighteen  in  appearance,  but,  really,  in 
her  twenty-first  summer. 

"Are  you  a  heathen,  Grace?"  The  woman's 
dark  eyes  flashed  half-angrily.  "  Did  you  never 
hear  of  the  life  to  come,  pray  ?  What  kind  of 
people  have  you  been  amongst?  Didn't  they 
teach  you  anything  about  God  and  heaven  ?" 

"  Oh,  yes."  A  gentle  smile  parted  the  maid 
en's  lips. 

"Well,  then,  you  know  what  I  mean  by  the 


THE    LIFE   TO   COME.  77 

life  to  come — life  in  the  next  world — life  in  hea 
ven.  Of  this  bitter  life,  with  its  sorrows,  be 
reavements,  disappointments,  and  pains,  I  am 
weary,  and,  therefore,  say  in  my  heart,  Thank 
God  for  the  life  to  come !" 

The  countenance  of  Grace  did  not  lighten  up 
with  the  satisfied  expression  of  one  who  under 
stands  and  appreciates  another.  A  gentle  sigh, 
that  was  half  involuntary,  parted  her  lips.  Her 
eyes  fell  away  from  the  eyes  of  her  aunt — a  shade 
of  thought  crept  over  her  quiet  face.  Mrs.  Fleet- 
wood  looked  at  her  curiously,  and  with  a  falling 
brow. 

Nearly  ten  years  had  passed  since  this  sis 
ter's  child  had  been  left  motherless  and  among 
strangers,  and  not  once,  until  now,  during  these 
ten  years,  had  Mrs.  Fleetwood  seen  her  niece. 
Her  own  life  had  been  too  worldly  and  selfish  to 
admit  of  a  generous,  loving  sentiment  toward  the 
child  of  a  sister,  whose  marriage  with  a  man  of 
no  "  position  or  promise,"  as  she  expressed  it,  had 
been  felt  as  a  humiliation ;  and  so,  she  had  been 


78         THE  SEEN  AND  THE  UNSEEN. 

content  to  let  her  remain  with  those  who  had  re 
ceived  her  to  their  hearts  and  homes  when  God  re 
moved  her  widowed  mother.  But  a  change  in  her 
own  life  had  come,  bringing  sorrow,  bereavement, 
and  misfortune ;  and  now  her  thought  went  out 
towards  Grace,  her  sister's  child — not  lovingly, 
but  selfishly — not  with  a  desire  to  be  miuistrant  to 
her  conditions  of  life,  but  with  a  desire  of  being 
ministered  to  herself.  From  this  state  she  sum 
moned,  rather  than  invited,  her  niece ;  and  from 
this  state  sought  to  read  her  character  and  dispo 
sition,  when  she  came,  with  eyes  that  endeavored 
to  look  into  her  very  consciousness.  That  she 
was  baffled  in  this  will  hardly  be  a  matter  of  sur 
prise.  Persons  of  her  class  are  without  the  key 
that  unlocks  the  inner  chambers  of  a  soul  whose 
life-mansions  are  not  built  on  earthly  foundations. 
Mrs.  Fleetwood  was  a  church- woman  whose  re 
ligion,  up  to  the  time  when  her  sky  became  over 
cast,  consisted  in  formal  service  alone.  Beyond 
this  she  had  no  conception  of  duty  to  God. 
After  all  the  blessedness  of  her  natural  life  had 


THE    LIFE    TO    COME.  79 

been  extinguished  —  after  children,  fortune, 
frienis,  were  gone,  and  darkness  drew  down 
over  her  world  like  a  curtain,  then  her  selfish 
heart  began  to  sigh  for  the  blessedness  of  a  life 
to  come — then  she  lifted  her  eyes  toward  the 
far-off  mountains  of  heaven,  which  her  imagina 
tion  painted  as  beautiful  with  verdure,  and  balmy 
with  the  odors  of  immortal  flowers.  And  still,  as 
the  pictures  spread  themselves  all  lovely  to  be 
hold,  and  fancy,  as  she  dwelt  upon  them,  gave 
ever  multiplying  attractions,  she  grew  almost  im 
patient  to  put  off  the  poor,  torn  vestments  of 
mortality,  and  rise  into  life  eternal. 

You  understand  Mrs.  Fleetwood  now,  and  are 
not  surprised  at  the  curious  look  and  falling  brow 
with  which  she  regarded  her  niece,  whose  coun 
tenance  did  not  answer  to  her  warmly  uttered 
"  Thank  God  for  the  life  to  come !"  As  the  eyes 
of  Grace  fell  away  from  those  of  her  aunt,  and 
thought-shadows  crept  about  her  lips  and  brow, 
Mrs.  Fleetwood  said,  with  a  slight  tremor  of  im 
patience  in  her  tones — 


80  THE    SEEN    AND    THE    UNSEEN. 

"  Maybe  you  don't  believe  in  another  life." 

Instantly  the  eyes  of  Grace  flashed  up  into 
those  of  Mrs.  Fleetwood;  not  with  any  fire  of  in 
dignation  in  them,  but  with  a  light  as  pure  as 
that  which  dew-drops  gather  from  sunbeams — a 
light  full  of  hope  and  sweet  anticipation. 

"  I  have  been  taught  to  thank  God  for  the  life 
to  come,  aunt,  and  to  seek  for  it  in  duty  and  self- 
denial,"  replied  Grace,  a  smile  playing  softly 
around  her  lips. 

A  change  was  apparent  in  Mrs.  Fleetwood's 
face.  Its  expression  was  slightly  puzzled.  The 
brief  answer  was  not  satisfactory  to  her  state,  for 
it  involved  things  admitted  by  common  percep 
tion,  yet  not  clearly  seen. 

"I  mean  life  in  another  world — life  in  heaven, 
Grace."  Mrs.  Fleetwood's  manner  was  subdued. 

"  There  is  no  life  in  another  world  that  is  not 
born  in  this,  aunt.  So  I  have  been  taught." 

Mrs.  Fleetwood  gazed  at  her  niece  with  a  look 
of  half  perplexed  inquiry. 


THE    LIFE    TO   COME.  81 

"  The  '  life  to  come'  must  come  here,  or  it  can 
never  come  at  all,"  added  Grace. 

"  Child,  you  talk  in  riddles !"  said  Mrs.  Fleet- 
wood,  moving  impatiently.  "  I  can't  get  at  your 
meaning.  Life  in  this  world  is  the  present  life, 
and  life  in  the  next  world  is  the  life  to  come. 
Isn't  that  so  ?" 

"  There  is  natural  life  and  there  is  spiritual  life, 
aunt." 

"  Well,  child  ?" 

"  Natural  life  is  the  earthly  life,  and  spiritual 
life  the  heavenly  life." 

"  Yes.     Every  Christian  knows  that." 

"Natural  life,  that  into  which  we  are  born, 
and  spiritual  life,  the  life  to  come,"  said  Grace, 
speaking  slowly,  and  with  significant  emphasis. 

Mrs.  Fleetwood,  with  lips  slightly  apart,  sat 
looking  into  the  earnest  face  of  her  niece,  which 
seemed  all  at  once  to  become  instinct  with 
thought. 

"The  beginning  in  each  of  us  of  this  'life  to 

come'- -this   heavenly    life,   aunt — I   have    been 
F 


82  THE    SEEN    AND   THE    UNSEEN. 

taught  to  regard  as  the  new-birth,  without  which, 
as  our  Lord  has  expressly  said,  we  cannot  en 
ter  the  kingdom  of  heaven.  •  'That  which  is 
born  of  the  flesh  is  flesh,  and  that  which  is  born 
of  the  spirit  is  spirit.  Marvel  not  that  I  said 
unto  you,  ye  must  be  born  again.'  This  is  the 
'  life  to  come,'  aunt ;  this  is  the  actual  rising  into 
another  state  of  existence.  Death  can  make  no 
change  in  the  quality  of  our  lives,  aunt — so  I 
have  been  taught,  and  so  do  I  believe.  As  our 
life  is  at  death,  so  will  it  remain  to  eternity.  We 
shall  only  pass  from  the  world  of  material,  to  the 
world  of  spiritual  things;  and  these  spiritual  things 
will  be  such  as  agree  with  our  states  and  qualities 
of  soul — such  as  we  have  loved  and  delighted  in 
here.  If  we  have  passed,  by  regeneration — a  new 
birth  and  a  new  growth — into  the  full  stSture  of  a 
spiritual  man,  then,  our  lives  having  been  in  hea 
ven  while  our  bodies  were  yet  upon  the  earth,  we 
shall  simply  rise,  by  death,  out  of  the  material 
into  the  spiritual  plane  of  existence,  and  live  con 
sciously,  as  we  lived  before  actually,  among  the 


THE    LIFE    TO   COME.  83 

angels.  But,  if  our  lives  have  been  selfish  and 
worldly,  we  shall  pass  by  death  into  a  conscious 
association  with  spirits  of  a  like  character,  who 
have  been  our  soul's  companions  while  our  bo 
dies  and  our  thoughts  have  been  in  this  outward 
world." 

"  You  bewilder  me,  Grace,"  said  Mrs.  Fleet- 
wood,  with  a  troubled  look.  "  I  can't  see  clear. 
By  God's  mercy,  I  hope  to  pass  into  heaven, 
when  I  leave  this  world.  My  Saviour  died  for 
me.  I  trust  in  him.  He  is  able  to  save  to  the 
uttermost." 

"  Dear  aunt,"  said  Grace,  "  we  must  be  like- 
minded  with  the  Saviour  if  we  would  dwell  with 
him  forever.  His  infinite  mercy  has  redeemed  us 
from  the  power  of  hell.  He  bowed  the  heavens, 
and  came  down,  that  he  might  raise  us  out  of  our 
sad  condition;  and  as  he  bowed  the  heavens  once 
for  all  mankind,  so  he  bows  it  now  and  forever 
for  each  individual  of  the  human  race,  and  thus 
makes  redemption  perpetual.  But  we  must  be 
born  again — natural  life,  which  is  selfish,  must 


84         THE  SEEN  AND  THE  UNSEEN. 

die  in  us  through  self-denial,  in  order  that  spirit 
ual  life  may  be  born  in  our  souls.  As  He  loved 
us,  and  gave  himself  for  us,  so  must  we  love 
others,  and  give  ourselves  for  them.  This  life  of 
love  is  the  '  life  to  come,'  and  without  its  birth  in 
our  hearts  here,  we  cannot  enter  heaven." 

The  shadow  fell  deeper  on  Mrs.  Fleetwood's 
countenance.  This  same  doctrine  may  have  been 
preached  in  her  ears  again  and  again,  many  times 
over,  but,  certainly,  never  before  had  it  gone  down 
to  the  region  of  conviction.  Loving  others,  and 
giving  her  life  for  others,  had  been  no  part  of 
Mrs.  Fleetwood's  creed.  Self  bounded  her  world. 
And  as  her  thought  went  forward  to  that  "  life  to 
come"  of  which  she  had  spoken,  it  was  pictured 
as  a  life  in  which  all  delight  was  selfish  instead 
of  reciprocal  or  beneficent.  But  that  common 
perception  of  truth,  which,  when  a  truth  is  first 
stated,  gives  it  a  real  embodiment,  now  struck 
her  mind  with  conviction,  and  sobered  her  feel 
ings.  Grace  had  moved  the  foundations  of  her 
hope  in  heaven. 


THE    LIFE    TO    COME.  S5 

From  that  hour  there  was  a  change  in  Mrs. 
Fleetwood.  In  the  walk  and  conversation  of  her 
niece,  she  saw  a  beautiful  illustration  of  her  more 
interior  doctrine.  Grace  never  seemed  to  think 
of  herself,  nor  to  feel  that  in  serving  another  she 
was  robbing  her  own  spirit.  Always  cheerful, 
always  ready  to  communicate,  always  reaching 
forth  the  willing  hand,  she  so  embodied  for  Mrs. 
Fleetwood  the  true  life  of  heaven,  that  she  grew 
at  last  to  comprehend  and  to  desire  it. 

"Thank  God  for  the  life  to  come!"  It  was 
many  years  afterward  that  Mrs.  Fleetwood  said 
this  again,  but  with  what  a  new  and  Higher 
meaning  in  her  thought ! 


86         THE  SEEN  AND  THE  UNSEEN 


VIII. 

THE  FACE  AND  THE  LIFE. 

"  YI  THAT  kind  of  a  looking  man  was  he  ?"  I 
asked. 

"I  saw  his  face  only  for  a  moment.  It  did 
not  impress  me  favorably.  But  faces  in  repose 
do  not  always  give  a  right  index  of  character." 

"  I  am  not  sure  of  that,"  said  I.  "  The  face  in 
repose  is,  I  think,  the  true  face.  We  all  have 
two  lives,  the  external  for  the  world,  the  internal 
for  ourselves.  And  we  are  with  ourselves,  living 
our  own  internal  lives,  more  than  we  are  with  the 
world  living  our  external  lives.  Our  external  is 
a  constrained  and  superficial  thing,  to  be  put  on 
and  off  as  interest,  pleasure,  or  love  of  reputation 
may  dictate.  But  our  internal  is  made  up  of  our 
real  ends  and  purposes — is  our  very  self,  and  si 
lently,  but  surely,  day  by  day,  and  year  by  year, 


THE    FACE    AND    THE    LIFE.  37 

is  it  writing  on  our  faces  a  true  record  of  our  cha 
racters.  This  is  why  the  countenances  of  the 
good  grow  beautiful  as  they  grow  old ;  and  why 
the  countenances  of  the  selfish  and  evil  grow 
more  and  more  repulsive  with  age." 

"  I  think  there  must  be  exceptions  to  this,"  re 
marked  my  friend. 

"There  may  be  apparent  exceptions,  but  no 
real  ones,  for  there  is  an  eternal  relation  between 
cause  and  effect." 

"  Look  at  Dr.  Mayfield,"  said  he. 

"  You  cite  a  strong  case,"  I  answered. 

"  Did  you  ever  know  a  better  man  ?" 

"  I  think  him  one  of  the  best  of  men,"  said  I. 

"And  yet,  his  face  in  repose  is  as  hard  as 
iron." 

"  It  is  very  hard,  and  very  homely,"  I  ad 
mitted. 

"  Yet  all  this  fades  when  it  lights  up  in  con 
versation,  and  you  wonder  if  it  can  be  the  same 
face  you  looked  upon  a  little  while  before." 

"  If  you  study  that  face  when  the  glow  of  ex- 


88         THE  SEEN  AND  THE  UNSEES. 

ternal  thought  and  feeling  has  died  away,"  said  I, 
"you  will  not  find  among  its  hard  angles  and 
deep  lines  any  lurking  signs  of  cruelty." 

"  No ;  it  is  not  a  cruel  face." 

"  Nor  do  we  find  covetousness  there." 

"  It  could  not  be  there,"  ray  friend  answered, 
promptly ;  "  for  of  all  vices,  Doctor  Mayfield  is 
freest  of  this." 

"  Nor  envy,  discontent,  or  fretfulness." 

"No." 

"  Hard  and  homely  as  his  face  is,  it  does  not 
repel  you." 

"No,"  replied  my  friend,  "there  is  nothing 
about  Doctor  Mayfield  to  repel.  Everybody  is 
attracted  by  him." 

"If  internally  he  were  cruel,  selfish,  envious 
and  discontented,  these  repulsive  qualities  would 
radiate  from  his  countenance  when  in  repose,  and 
no  one  could  mistake  the  signs.  And  so,  in 
looking  more  narrowly  at  this  'strong  case,'  I 
find  that  it  does  not  invalidate  the  theory.  In 
the  instance  of  Doctor  Mayfield,  it  seems  that  a 


THE    FACE    AND    THE    LIFE.  89 

spirit  of  more  than  ordinary  purity  had  become 
enshrined  in  a  body  of  less  than  ordinary  beauty, 
and  of  such  an  unyielding  substance,  that  scarcely 
perceptible  impressions  were  made,  even  in  the 
lapse  of  years.  But  the  artist-soul  is  at  work, 
and  that  hard  face  shall  yet  put  on  lineaments 
that  to  some  eyes  will  only  thinly  veil  the  beau 
tiful." 

"And  so  you  think  the  face  in  repose  a  right 
index  to  character?" 

"  I  do,  and  for  the  reason  given." 

"  There  is  the  face  of  Mrs.  Lawson,"  said  my 
friend.  "The  thought  of  her  has  just  come  into 
my  mind.  No  one  questions  her  goodness.  Yet 
her  face  when  in  repose  is  anything  but  pleasing 
to  contemplate.  Her  mouth  has  a  troubled  ex 
pression,  singularly  in  contrast  with  its  sweetness 
when  she  smiles." 

"Mrs.  Lawson  has  known  trouble,"  I  re 
marked.  "  She  has  passed  through  many  fires  of 
affliction." 

8* 


90         THE  SEEN  AND  THE  UNSEEN. 

"  Yes ;  the  cup  of  life  placed  to  her  lips  was 
bitter  indeed,  and  she  drank  to  the  dregs." 

"  Through  many  years,  she  drank." 

"  Yes — through  many  years." 

"  Do  you  wonder  that  her  face  grew  in  all  these 
painful  years  into  an  expression  of  her  inner  life? 
That  the  perpetual  trouble  in  her  heart  should 
have  left  its  unattractive  signs  upon  her  counte 
nance  ?  Was  it  possible  for  her  to  pass  long  sea 
sons  of  terrible  suspense  and  fear? — to  watch, 
day  by  day,  the  light  of  life  grow  fainter  and 
fainter  in  a  beloved  face,  until  it  went  out  forever 
in  this  world  ? — to  see  a  destructive  vice  gaining 
by  slow  yet  sure  accumulations  of  strength,  power 
over  a  son,  and  finally  bearing  him  down,  and 
binding  him  in  fetters  that  were  never  broken  ? 
Was  all  this  possible  to  be  borne  without  a  dis 
figuring  line  of  pain  ?  I  think  not." 

"No,  it  were  impossible,"  said  my  friend. 
"  Impossible,"  he  repeated,  in  a  half  absent  way, 
his  eyes  fixed,  as  if  some  image  in  his  thought 
had  made  itself  outwardly  visible. 


THE    FACE    AND    THE    LIFE.  91 

"  But  she  has  reached  her  tranquil  days,  thank 
God!"  I  remarked.  "The  long  years  of  suspense 
are  over — the  worst,  as  they  say,  has  come  to  the 
worst — death  has  made  still  the  hearts  whose 
every  throb  of  pain  ran  thrilling  down  the  wires 
of  sympathy  that  bound  them  to  her  own.  Like 
a  brave,  true  Christian  woman,  she  walked  stead 
ily  onward  in  the  ways  of  duty,  and  by  duty  and 
suffering  she  has  been  purified.  But  the  marks 
of  fire  are  still  upon  her.  She  was  but  human. 
The  old  lines  of  trouble  are  not  yet  chiselled 
away ;  may  never  be  wholly  obliterated." 

"And  so,"  persisted  my  friend,  "  the  counte 
nance  in  repose  does  not  always  give  the  index  of 
character." 

"  As  instance  Mrs.  Lawson  ?" 

"Yes." 

"  I  say,  yea,  and  instance  Mrs.  Lawson."  I 
was  persistent  in  my  view  of  the  case. 

"  You  do  ?" 

"  I  do."  was  my  firmly  spoken  reply.  "  The 
face  of  Mrs.  Lawson,  when  not  lighted  up  by 


92         THE  SEEN  AND  THE  UNSEEN. 

thought  and  feeling,  is  brooding  and  troubled, 
and  gives  the  character  of  her  inner  life  and  con 
sciousness,  through  a  long,  long  series  of  years, 
during  which  time  the  denser  fibres  that  move  in 
expression,  hardened  in  one  direction ;  and  they  re 
tain  that  direction  still.  Facile  they  are,  of  course, 
to  predominant  emotions;  but,  when  released  from 
tension,  draw  back  to  their  old  position." 

"  Then,"  said  my  friend,  "  I  must  still  ques 
tion  the  proposition  that  the  face  in  repose  is  the 
true  face.  You  argue  against  yourself.  Mrs. 
•Lawson's  inner  life  is  now  serene ;  but  her  coun 
tenance  indicates  trouble  and  sadness." 

"Memory  is  not  lost,  nor  old  states  entirely 
obliterated,"  I  answered.  "As  to  her  inner  life 
being  serene,  I  am  not  sure  that  such  a  condition 
is  yet  possible  to  her.  It  is,  no  doubt,  in  compa 
rison  to  what  it  has  been.  But,  after  such  storms 
as  have  agitated  her  soul,  the  deep  ground-swell 
must  long  continue.  And,  moreover,  the  best  of 
people  have  often  the  most  painful  discipline  to 
endure." 


THE    FACE    AND    THE    LIFE.  93 

"T  have  heard  that  before,"  said  my  friend 
ioubtfully. 

"And,  if  I  draw  a  correct  inference  from  your 
tone  of  voice,  do  not  credit  the  proposition,"  1 
remarked. 

"  I  have  not  said  that  I  question  the  truth  of 
your  remark." 

"  It  is  only  not  agreeable  ?" 

"  If  your  position  is  true,  it  is  very  far  from 
being  an  agreeable  one,"  he  answered. 

"The  Bible  says  that  the  Lord  loveth  whom 
he  chasteneth,  and  scourgeth  every  son  whom  he 
receiveth." 

"  I  know ;  but,  not  to  speak  irreverently,  I  do 
not  fancy  that  way  of  showing  affection." 

"  The  love,"  said  I,  letting  my  voice  fall  into  a 
low  tone,  "  that  consents  to  the  infliction  of  pain, 
must  be  of  the  truest  and  deepest  kind.  Divine 
love  has  for  its  end  the  salvation  in  heaven  of 
every  one.  But  the  Lord  can  only  save  us  in  the 
degree  that  he  can  lead  us  out  of  our  hereditary 
and  actual  evils,  and  bestow  upon  us  good  affec- 


94         THE  SEEN  AND  THE  UNSEEN. 

tions.  All  who  will  permit  him  to  lead  them, 
whether  it  be  through  light  troubles  or  fiery 
trials,  he  draws  heavenward.  In  the  beginning 
of  this  heavenward  journey,  the  walk  is  in  the 
path  of  external  obedience  to  Divine  precepts. 
Truth  shines  into  the  mind,  and  shows  us  the 
way  of  life.  It  seems  for  awhile,  an  easy  thing 
to  move  onward.  But  after  a  time,  our  heavenly 
Father,  who  is  really  seeking  to  work  a  change  in 
the  quality  of  our  affections,  so  that  we  shall  not 
merely  do  right  in  obedience  to  a  law,  but  right 
because  we  love  what  is  good,  so  disposes  the 
things  of  our  natural  lives  that  we  come  into  sor 
row,  trouble,  or  misfortune.  By  this  means,  he 
seeks  to  produce  a  separation  in  the  mind  between 
worldly  things  and  the  things  of  heaven — be 
tween  what  is  of  time,  and  what  is  of  eternity. 
If  there  should  be  in  the  mind,  stored  up  in  in 
fancy,  childhood,  and  youth,  by  means  of  pa 
rents,  teachers,  and  preachers,  good  affections,  as 
well  as  holy  truths  from  the  holy  Book,  the  Lord 
can  by  means  of  these  lift  the  striving  soul  out 


THE  FACE  AND  THE  LIFE.  95 

of  the  darkness  of  natural  life,  into  the  light  of 
spiritual  perception.  With  this  state  is  given  a 
foretaste  of  celestial  blessedness,  in  the  temporary 
fruition  of  which  all  earthly  delights  sink  into 
meanness.  Only  for  a  time  does  this  state  abide. 
It  is  like  a  temple  made  suddenly  visible  in  the 
air,  yet  having  no  foundation  to  rest  upon,  whose 
ravishing  beauty  forever  after  dwells  in  the  ima 
gination,  and  dims  by  contrast  even  the  grandest 
works  of  men. 

"But,"  I  continued,  "this  beatific  vision — this 
foretaste  of  celestial  blessedness  is  not  given  to 
mock  the  soul,  born  with  infinite  longings  after 
the  good  and  the  true,  and  with  almost  infinite 
capabilities,  but  as  a  lure.  There  is  a  temple  to 
be  builded,  gorgeous  and  beautiful ;  but  the  foun 
dations  must  be  laid,  stone  upon  stone,  with  labor 
and  care.  First  is  given  the  fair  ideal,  as  it  is 
given  to  the  architect  who  is  to  construct  some 
grand  earthly  temple.  It  is  seen,  only  as  in  a  vi 
sion  ;  then  becomes  fixed  in  the  idea ;  and  after 
wards  is  wrought  out  and  built  into  an  abiding 


96         THE  SEEN  AND  THE  UNStEN. 

structure.  It  is  to  incite  us  to  the  work  of  lay 
ing,  in  patience,  self-denial,  and  good  deeds  among 
our  fellow-men,  the  foundations  of  a  temple  into 
which  He  may  enter  and  dwell  that  God  gives  to 
us,  in  this  first  state  of  separation  between  things 
that  are  of  heaven  and  the  world,  glimpses  of 
celestial  beauty. 

"  The  regeneration  of  a  human  soul,  fallen  into 
the  low  deeps  of  selfishness,  is  no  light  task.  It 
cannot  be  accomplished  in  a  day,  nor  in  an  hour. 
It  is  the  achievement  of  years.  Weak,  human 
hands  must  do  the  work — though  not  unassisted. 
If  divine  aid  were  not  given,  the  case  would  be 
hopeless.  But  this  help  comes  only  in  the  de 
gree  that  effort  can  be  inspired  in  man.  He 
must  work  as  of  himself;  yet  with  the  conscious 
ness  and  acknowledgment  that  power  to  act  is 
from  God.  Is  it  not  plain,  that  in  the  beginning 
of  the  effort  to  resist  and  overcome  the  natural  in 
clinations,  which  are  all  selfish,  he  would  soon 
grow  weary?  That  after  struggle  and  conquest 
on  the  first  field  of  battle,  the  exhausted  spirit 


THE   PACE    AND    THE    LIFE.  97 

would  shrink  from  a  renewal  of  strife?  And 
now  it  is,  that  we  see  the  operation  of  that  divine 
love,  which  consents  to  the  infliction  of  pain  in 
order  to  save  the  objects  of  its  love.  There  must 
be  another,  another,  and  another  battle  j  and  the 
weary  soldier  must  be  pricked  to  the  contest. 

"And  thus  it  will  be  through  the  whole  of  this 
spiritual  battle  prolonged  for  years.  God  loves 
his  children  too  well  to  spare  the  chastening  of 
natural  life,  whenever  it  is  needed,  in  order  that 
true  spiritual  life  may  be  born.  But  after  every 
battle  there  is  given  a  season  of  rest  and  peace; 
after  the  pains  of  birth,  delicious  tranquility,  and 
joy  for  the  oifspring — and  these  are  so  far  above 
natural  rest  and  joy,  that  no  degree  of  comparison 
exists  between  them. 

"And  this  is  why  the  best  of  people  have  often 
the  most  painful  discipline  to  endure ;  such  disci 
pline  as  would  destroy  those  in  whom  is  no  spi 
ritual  strength — as  baser  metals  are  consumed  in 
the  fires  by  which  gold  is  made  pure." 

I  had  grown  unusually  earnest  in  this  effort  to 


98  THE    SEEN    AND    THE    UNSEEN. 

demonstrate  the  proposition  at  which  my  friend 
had  seemed  to  demur. 

"You  may  be  right,"  was  answered — "no 
doubt  are  right ;  but  you  do  not  make  the  way  to 
heaven  attractive." 

"But  heaven  is  attractive;  and  there  is  only 
one  way  to  get  there — as  there  is  only  one  way  for 
the  distant  mariner  to  reach  his  home  that  lies 
far  across  a  stormy  ocean." 

"  Through  toil  and  suffering  ?" 

"  Through  a  denial  of  selfish  and  worldly  affec 
tions;  and  just  in  the  degree  that  this  denial  in 
volves  suffering,  must  pain  come.  It  is  because 
we  are  evil  that  we  suffer.  Evil  must  die  in  us 
before  good  can  be  born ;  and  there  is  pain  in 
both  conditions — death-pains  and  birth-pains — 
but  after  the  new  birth,  tranquil  peace,  and  joy 
that  passeth  understanding." 


NOT   AS   OUR   WAYS.  99 


IX. 

NOT  AS  OUR  WAYS. 

"  I  LL  His  ways  are  in  mercy,"  said  the  mi- 
•*••*•  nister.  "Do  not  forget  that,  my  sister." 
They  were  the  parting  sentences  of  one  who 
had  often  tried,  in  the  sunny  days  of  Mrs.  Field 
ing's  life,  to  lift  her  thoughts  above  the  outer 
world,  into  a  consciousness  of  those  higher  and 
purer  things,  from  which  abiding  happiness 
comes.  Yet,  until  now,  he  had  spoken  to  sealed 
ears.  Until  now !  Ah,  the  sunshine  had  gone 
from  her  sky.  It  was  night  with  Mrs.  Field 
ing — dark  and  silent  night ;  for  sorrow  and  trou 
ble  had  found  her  out.  But,  in  the  stillness  of 
this  night,  the  sound  of  voices,  speaking  from  an 
inner  world,  had  power  to  reach  her  ears.  These 
were  angel-voices,  and  at  first  she  only  felt  their 


100        THE  SEEN  AND  THE  UNSEEN. 

tenderness  and  sweetness,  without  any  clear  con 
sciousness  of  meaning  in  their  utterances. 

Less  than  one  year  before,  Mrs.  Fielding  was  a 
wife  and  mother;  now,  she  was  widowed  and 
childless.  Then  she  had  a  home,  in  which  every 
comfort  for  natural  life  was  provided ;  now,  she 
was  in  the  home  of  another,  and  dependent.  No 
wonder  the  truth  that  all  of  God's  ways  are  in 
love  and  mercy,  was  afar  off  from  her  perceptions, 
and  but  dimly  seen.  She  was  one  of  those  who 
tenderly  love  children.  In  her  own  babes,  her 
very  life  had  rested ;  rested  in  such  overweening 
tenderness,  that  weak  indulgence  took  the  place 
of  a  wise  maternal  discipline.  She  could  not 
bear  to  cross  their  natural  desires  in  anything, 
even  though  reason  told  her  that  it  was  essential 
to  their  higher  good.  Better  for  them,  the  wiser 
ministrations  of  angels,  in  the  heaven  of  inno 
cence,  than  the  weak  compliances  of  an  over-fond 
mother.  They  were  safe,  and  she  sorrowing  for 
their  loss  as  one  without  hope.  Widowed  and 


NOT    AS    OUK    WAYS.  101 

childless !     Ah,  the  night  was  very  dark  around 
the  mourner! 

Mrs.  Fielding  had  an  active,  independent  mind. 
As  her  bowed  spirit  lifted  itself,  feebly,  under  the 
weight  which  had  at  first  crushed  her  to  the  earth, 
and  she  began  to  realize  her  new  position  and  re 
lation  to  the  world,  thought  turned  in  all  direc 
tions,  searching  for  the  right  way.  She  could  not 
sit  down,  with  folded  hands,  and  become  a  burden 
some  drone ;  pride,  if  no  higher  impulse,  would 
have  forbidden  that.  But,  like  far  too  many 
young  ladies,  whose  parents  expend  large  sums 
on  their  education,  she  had  closed  her  school-girl 
days  without  a  thorough  knowledge  of  any  one 
of  the  branches  to  which  she  had  given  attention. 
She  had  a  clear,  intelligent  mind,  and  was  re 
garded  as  a  well-educated  woman ;  but  her  educa 
tion  was  not  of  the  kind  to  fit  her  for  the  duties 
of  a  teacher.  She  was  not  well  grounded  in  Eng 
lish  ;  nor  in  French,  Italian,  or  German,  though 
she  had  attempted  the  acquirement  of  these  lan 
guages  under  competent  instructors.  For  music, 
a* 


102  THE    SEEN    AND    THE    UNSEEN. 

she  had  no  taste ;  and,  though  she  played  tolera 
bly  well  at  the  time  of  her  marriage,  her  skill 
soon  left  her,  for  want  of  practice.  Tenderly  she 
loved  children,  as  we  have  said,  and  this  love  led 
her  thoughts  out  towards  them  in  her  questioning 
as  to  the  future,  and  she  was  beginning  to  think 
of  a  school  for  little  ones.  "  I  can  teach  them," 
she  said.  And  of  this,  it  had  come  into  her 
thought  to  speak  several  times.  But,  the  way 
did  not  look  clear  before  her  yet. 

"All  His  ways  are  in  mercy."  She  was  still 
dwelling  upon  what  the  minister  had  said,  and 
trying  to  see  how  affliction  and  poverty  could  be 
in  mercy  to  her,  when  a  friend  who  had  drawn 
very  near  since  her  days  of  darkness  began,  came 
in. 

"  It  must  be  so,"  Mrs.  Fielding  said,  referring 
to  the  minister's  words,  "  and  yet,  in  coming  down 
to  my  own  case,  doubt  arises.  In  my  heart,  I 
cannot  accept  this  faith." 

"  The  time  is  not  yet,  but  it  will  come,"  an 
swered  the  friend,  "  for  it  is  a  true  faith.  God's 


NOT    AS    OUR    WAYS.  103 

ways  are  not  our  ways — especially  not  as  our 
ways  in  regard  to  the  individual  alone.  Good  is 
always  the  end  of  God's  providences ;  not  good  to 
you  or  to  me  only,  in  the  dispensations  that  reach 
us,  but  good,  as  well,  to  all  who  can  in  any  way 
be  affected  through  our  lives.  Did  you  ever 
think  of  that  ?" 

Mrs.  Fielding's  countenance  showed  a  newly 
awakening  interest.  "  The  thought,  as  you  pre 
sent  it,"  she  said,  "  has  never  before  come  into  my 
mind." 

"  Yet,  it  must  be  true.  Think  for  a  moment. 
In  the  Lord's  eyes,  all  are  equal.  He  regards 
you  with  the  same  tenderness  and  care  that  he  re 
gards  me,  and  the  children  of  my  neighbor  are  as 
precious  in  his  sight  as  mine." 

"  Yes,  yes.  That  must  be  so,"  assented  Mrs. 
Fielding. 

"And  He  is  ever  making  us  the  ministers  of 
His  good,  one  towards  another,  through  willing 
service,  if  there  is  love  in  our  hearts ;  but  through 
constraint,  and  the  compelling  power  of  circum- 


104        THE  SEEN  AND  THE  UNSEEN. 

stances,  if  our  hands  are  held  back,  in  selfish  idle 
ness,  from  useful  ministrations.  It  is  not  always 
for  individual  discipline  alone  that  sorrows  and 
misfortunes  come.  Involved  therein  is  the  indi 
vidual's  relation  to  society,  and  the  good  to  others 
that  will  spring  from  the  new  life  that  is  to  bo 
born  in  him  as  the  old  natural  and  selfish  life  ex 
pires.  We  are  all  God's  agents  for  good,  work 
ing  in  our  day  and  generation ;  and  the  nearer  we 
draw  towards  him  in  self-denial  and  neighborly 
love,  the  higher  and  more  angelic  will  be  the  ser 
vice  we  render  to  his  children.  He  has  work  for 
you,  my  dear  friend — work  for  which  he  has  been 
educating  you  in  these  dark  days  of  affliction,  and 
happy  will  you  be  when  you  find  this  work. 
The  very  delight  of  heaven  is  the  delight  of  be 
ing  useful  to  others,  and  just  in  the  degree  that  a 
love  of  serving  others  for  the  sake  of  use  comes 
into  our  hearts,  just  so  near  shall  we  be  to  hea 
ven,  and  partakers,  in  that  degree,  of  heavenly 
happiness." 

"How  can  I  be  useful?"  asked  Mrs.  Fielding, 


NOT    AS    OUK    WAYS.  105 

as  her  perceptions  entered  into  the  thought  of  her 
friend  j  and  with  perception,  came  an  influx  of 
desire. 

"  May  I  suggest  a  way  ?" 

"  Yes— yes." 

"  You  know  Mrs.  Garland  ?" 

"  Yes ;  or,  at  least,  have  some  knowledge  of  her. 
We  were  not  visiting  acquaintances." 

"  She  is  a  light,  vain,  selfish  woman,  and  com 
pletely  absorbed  in  fashionable  life." 

"So  I  have  understood." 

"The  mother  of  three  sweet  little  children, 
who  are  given  over  almost  entirely  to  servants. 
I  was  talking,  only  yesterday,  to  Mr.  Garland's 
sister  about  them;  and  she  said,  that  the  neglected 
condition  of  his  children  was  a  source  of  deep 
concern  to  her  brother,  who  was  anxious  to  get 
into  his  family  a  woman  of  education,  good  prin 
ciples,  and  Christian  regard  for  duty,  who  would 
be  to  them  as  a  true  mother.  The  thought  of 
you,  Mrs.  Fielding,  came  at  once  into  my  mind ; 
and  I  even  suggested  your  name." 


106        THE  SEEN  AND  THE  UNSEEN. 

"And  what  was  said?"  Mrs.  Fielding  showed 
considerable  interest. 

"  If  she  will  take  the  place,  my  brother  will  be 
a  happy  man,"  was  answered. 

Mrs.  Fielding's  breast  heaved  with  a  single, 
long-drawn  sigh.  Her  face  grew  very  sober;  her 
eyes  rested  on  the  floor.  She  sat  very  still  and 
statue-like. 

"Accept  the  trust,  my  dear  friend!  Take 
these  neglected  little  ones — innocences,  precious 
in  God's  eyes — and  nurture  them  for  heaven ;  for 
that  heaven  where  your  own  sweet  babes  have 
found  celestial  homes  and  angel-mothers." 

In  the  glow  of  an  unselfish  tenderness,  that 
warmed  the  heart  of  Mrs.  Fielding,  she  answered, 
tears  brimming  in  her  eyes : 

"  I  will  not  hold  back  my  feet  from  the  way 
of  duty,  if  I  see  it  plain  before  me.  God  being 
my  helper,  I  will  follow  as  he  may  guide.  I 
love  children.  It  is  my  delight  to  be  with 
them." 


NOT    AS    OUR    WAYS.  107* 

"  Shall  I  make  the  arrangement  for  you  ?"  said 
the  friend. 

Again  the  face  of  Mrs.  Fielding  was  over 
shadowed  by  thought.  Her  eyes  dropped  to  the 
floor,  she  sat  still  and  statue-like  again.  Some 
natural  emotions  stirred  in  her  heart,  and  there 
was  a  brief  struggle  with  them  for  the  mastery. 
When  she  looked  up,  a  sweet  smile  was  touching 
her  lips,  like  a  sunbeam,  and  love  sat  in  her  se 
rene  eyes. 

"  If  I  am  wanted,  I  will  go,"  she  answered. 

"You  are  wanted,"  was  the  friend's  decided 
answer.  "  To-morrow  I  will  see  you  again,"  she 
said,  as  she  pressed  her  hand  in  parting. 

In  less  than  a  week  there  was  a  change  of  both 
place  and  state  with  Mrs.  Fielding.  From  sad, 
tearful,  idle  dependence,  she  moved  upwards  into 
a  sphere  of  usefulness,  in  which  her  heart  became 
at  once  interested.  Three  bright,  beautiful,  and 
affectionate  little  ones  were  given  wholly  into  her 
care  by  a  mother  who  was  daily  showing  herself 
to  be  unworthy  of  the  high  and  holy  trust  reposed 


108        THE  SEEN  AND  THE  UNSEEN 

in  her  by  the  Father  of  all  human  souls.  Soon 
was  transferred  the  sweetness  of  that  unselfish 
love  of  children,  which  is  the  mother's  highest 
blessing — passing  from  a  cold  and  worldly  heart 
to  one  in  which  suffering  was  accomplishing  its 
true  work. 

Mrs.  Fielding,  as  we  have  said,  was  one  of 
those  who  tenderly  love  childhood.  Towards  the 
babes,  who  were  flesh  of  her  flesh,  this  love  was 
overshadowed  by  the  weakness  of  a  natural,  ma 
ternal  tenderness,  that  shrank  from  the  exercise 
of  needed  discipline.  Now,  she  was  truer  to  all 
perceptions  of  right  and  duty.  To  her  own  chil 
dren,  love  had  been  weak  and  compliant,  but  to 
wards  these  children  of  her  adoption,  it  was  clear, 
strong,  wise  and  tender. 

Five  years  passed  on  with  Mrs.  Fielding,  each 
bringing  to  her  heart  new  increments  of  abiding 
peace.  The  neglected  little  ones  had  been  taken 
at  once  into  her  love,  and  wisdom  had  prompted 
this  love  ever  to  seek  their  highest  good.  They 
were,  in  her  affections,  as  though  born  of  her  own 


NOT    AS    OUR   WAYS.  109 

body.  The  mother-instinct  in  her  nature  had 
gone  fully  out  to  them. 

Five  years  had  passed ;  and,  for  more  than  two 
years,  the  unworthy  mother  of  these  children  had 
been  at  rest  from  earthly  passion.  Her  sun 
went  out  ere  life  had  touched  its  fair  meridian ; 
and  there  was  not  much  heart-grief  at  her  loss. 
So  the  mere  selfish  worldlings  die.  Even  those 
who  stand  nearest,  and  whose  ties  are,  or  should 
be,  strongest,  rarely  sorrow  as  those  who  refuse  to 
be  comforted. 

A  man  of  a  strong,  true,  tender  nature  was  Mr. 
Garland.  Life  to  such  an  one,  bound  to  a  mere 
worldly,  vain,  selfish  and  fashionable  woman,  is 
little  more  than  a  weary  desert.  Dutiful,  patient, 
and  upright  had  he  been  through  all  the  years  of 
an  unsatisfying  union;  and  when  death  closed  the 
compact,  he  gave  tears  to  the  memory  of  her  who 
had  once  been  dear  to  him ;  of  her  who  was  the 
mother  of  his  precious  children — and  threw  a  veil 
over  the  unhappy  past. 

Two  years  had  lapsed  away  since  the  angel  of 

10 


110        THE  SEEN  AND  THE  UNSEEN. 

death  drew  her  from  his  side.  Mrs.  Fielding 
still  held  her  place  as  the  true  mother  of  his  chil 
dren.  Her  life  had  become  so  bound  up  in  their 
lives — their  good  so  dependent  on  her  ministra 
tion — that  no  thought  of  separation  had  intruded. 

Is  it  remarkable  that  a  true  man  and  a  true 
woman,  whose  daily  lives  so  met  in  a  mutual  in 
terest,  should  be  attracted  by  stronger  forces  ?  Is 
it  remarkable  that  respect,  regard,  and  admiration 
should  take  love  into  their  fraternity,  and  give 
her  the  highest  place  ? 

"As  you  are,  and  have  been,  for  years,  their 
true  mother,"  said  Mr.  Garland,  taking  the  hand 
of  Mrs.  Fielding  one  evening,  as  she  came  back 
from  the  apartment  where  the  children  slept,  to 
their  family  sitting-room — he  had  listened,  as  he 
sat  alone  to  the  tender  inflections  of  her  voice  as 
she  talked  with,  and  read  to  them ;  that  voice 
stirring  emotion  deeper  and  deeper,  like  music  to 
which  the  heart  lifts  itself  in  sweet  responses. 
"As  you  are,  and  have  been,  for  years  their  true 


NOT    AS    OUR    WAYS.  Ill 

mother,  will  you  not  be  a  mother  to  them  in 
name  also  ?" 

He  held  the  hand  tightly,  and  looked  into  her 
face.  Her  eyes,  startled  at  first,  dropped  away 
from  his,  and  fell  upon  the  floor.  Mr.  Garland 
felt  an  impulse  in  her  hand,  as  if  she  were  about 
to  withdraw  it,  and  his,  with  a  responsive  im 
pulse  took  hold  with  a  firmer  clasp. 

"The  currents  of  our  lives,"  he  said  in  his 
calm,  true,  earnest  voice,  "  have  in  God's  provi 
dence  been  for  some  time  running  side  by  side, 
taking  equally  the  sunshine  and  shade,  and  feel 
ing,  almost  as  one,  the  rippling  breezes.  Shall 
they  not  flow  together  ?  I  testify,  here,  to  your 
dignified,  womanly  conduct  in  every  relation  in 
my  home.  You  have  been  true  to  yourself  and 
your  sex  in  all  things.  So  true,  that  from  respect 
and  admiration,  a  deeper  and  tenderer  feeling  to 
wards  you  has  been  born.  I  say  this  frankly. 
And  now,  Mrs.  Fielding,  how  stands  the  case? 
Shall  our  lives  flow  together  as  a  single  stream  ? 
It  is  for  you  to  say." 


112  THE    SEEN    AND    THE    UNSEEN. 

For  more  than  a  minute  Mrs.  Fielding  stood, 
looks  downcast  and  breath  indrawn  to  an  almost 
imperceptible  respiration.  When  she  raised  her 
eyes,  slowly,  they  were  wet  with  blinding  tears, 
and  her  lips  had  an  irrepressible  quiver ;  but  Mr. 
Garland  saw  light  shining  through  the  tears,  and 
consent  on  her  trembling  inarticulate  lips.  He 
led  her  to  a  scat. 

"  I  have  not  sought  this,  Mr.  Garland — heaven 
be  my  witness "  Her  delicate  woman's  na 
ture  shrank. 

"And  I  am  also  your  witness,  dear,  true,  right- 
hearted  friend,  whom  God — his  ways  are  not  as 
our  ways — has  so  kindly  led  to  my  side!  Be 
nearer  and  dearer  to  me  than  a  friend ;  that  is,  if 
in  your  heart  you  can  draw  nearer.  I  do  not 
want  the  hand  I  hold  unless  all  that  can  bless  a 
man  goes  with  it." 

And  the  blessing  was  his. 

How  sweetly,  purely,  and  tranquilly  flowed 
their  stream  of  life,  full  to  the  grassy  and  flower- 
decked  brim ! — a  true  man  and  a  true  woman, 


NOT    AS    OUR    WATS.  113 

with  high  aims  and  heaven-rising  aspirations, 
walked  onward  side  by  side  in  duty  and  love, 
and  not  a  heart-throb  beat  in  discord.  Could  an 
idle,  sorrowing,  self-afflicting  life  have  so  crowned 
the  years  of  Mrs.  Fielding  with  blessing  ?  It  is 
only  along  the  path  of  usefulness  that  the  Lord 
can  lead  to  life's  best  fruitions  here,  and  tht 

happiness  of  heaven  hereafter. 
10 »  H 


114  THE    SEEN    AND    THE    UNSEEN. 


X. 

OUR  HEAVENLY  GOMES. 

"  4  LITTLE  while  longer,"— and  the  speaker 
lifted  her  eyes  upwards  with  a  pious  air — 
"  only  a  little  while  longer,  and  then  I  shall  put 
off  this  vile  body,  and  go  upwards  to  my  home !" 
"  Where  the  wicked  cease  from  troubling,  and 
the  weary  are  at  rest."  The  response  came  from 
a  sad-looking  person,  on  whose  face  discontent 
and  weariness  of  life  were  strongly  written. 
"Only  a  little  while  longer,"  she  added,  re 
peating  the  words  of  her  who  had  first  spoken. 
"  There  are  some  of  us  who  would  bless  God  if 
our  feet  were  as  near  their  journey's  end  as 
yours.  The  ordeal  of  this  life  is  not  an  easy  one. 
Toil,  sorrow,  weariness,  disappointments — from 
cradle  to  grave  the  path  is  rugged ;  and  out  of  the 


OUR    HEAVENLY    HOMES.  115 

depths  of  its  pain  and  darkness  the  soul  cries  out, 
'  Lord,  shorten  the  way !'  " 

"Ay,  shorten  the  way,"  groaned  a  third  of  the 
group  which  had  surrounded  the  bed  of  a  sick 
sister.  u  We  have  no  house  here — no  abiding 
place — no  continuing  city.  Open,  Lord,  the 
pearly  gates  of  the  new  Jerusalem,  and  let  our 
feet  move  down  the  golden  streets." 

Pious  responses  fell  from  tremulous  lips,  and 
pious  eyes  went  upwards. 

"Going  home."  One  who  had  not,  till  now, 
spoken,  let  her  voice  steal  out  in  a  low,  but  firm 
utterance.  She  was  a  woman  who  had  passed  the 
summit  of  life,  and  was  now  stepping  downwards 
on  the  graveward  side.  Her  face  was  placid, 
though  pain  marks  were  on  her  forehead,  and 
pain  shadows  on  her  lips.  "Going  home.  Home 
is  a  sweet  word,  my  sisters !  But  to  what  kind  of 
homes  are  we  going  ?  That  is  worth  a  thought." 

"To  heavenly  homes,"  was  answered  by  one. 
"  To  the  paradise  of  God." 

"  In  my  Father's  house  are.  many  mansions," 


116        THE  SEEN  AND  THE  UNSEEN. 

said  another,  repeating  the  sweet  assurance  of  our 
Lord. 

"  We  are  in  exile — wanderers  from  home — 
waiting  and  longing  for  the  time  of  our  return," 
sighed  out  a  third. 

"  Did  it  never  occur  to  you,"  said  the  one  who 
had  asked  as  to  the  kind  of  homes  to  which  they 
were  going,  "  that  our  dwelling-places  in  the 
other  life  will  be  just  what  we  make  them  ?" 

Eyes  full  of  questions  and  doubts  were  turned 
upon  the  speaker. 

"  I  go  to  prepare  a  place  for  you,  that  where  T 
am  ye  may  be  also."  It  was  the  sick  sister's  an 
swer.  "  The  Lord  prepares  and  makes  beautiful 
our  heavenly  homes.  The  mansions  are  ready 
and  waiting  our  arrival." 

"And  we  do  nothing  towards  the  work?" 
asked  the  last  speaker. 

'  We  must  be  meet  for  the  habitation  of  an 
gels." 

"  Vague  all,  my  sisters,"  was  answered.  "  Let 
us  look  inward,  and  study  the  movements  and  re- 


OUK    HEAVENLY    HOMES.  117 

suits  of  our  own  lives.  We  build,  each  for  him 
self,  our  eternal  dwelling-places,  and  when  we 
come  into  their  manifest  occupation,  we  shall  find 
them  beautiful  or  deformed,  according  as  we  have 
made  them.  It  is  so  in  this  life ;  and  the  order 
will  not  be  changed.  As  we  feel  and  think,  and 
thence  act,  so  are  our  surroundings  here;  and 
such  will  be  the  law  of  our  surroundings  in  the 
life  to  come.  Can  it  be  otherwise  ?  We  should 
be .  indeed  strangers  and  aliens,  if  the  homes  in 
which  we  dwelt  did  not  correspond  with  our 
states  of  thought  and  feeling.  The  mind  makes 
for  itself  a  habitation,  and  peoples  it  with  compa 
nions,  among  which  it  loves  to  abide.  This  is  its 
home.  Death  cannot  change  these  companion 
ships  ;  but,  by  the  removal  of  external  and  inter 
vening  things,  renders  them  closer  and  more  inti 
mate.  Turn  your  thoughts  inward;  think  calmly, 
closely,  seriously ;  and  your  convictions  will  as 
sent  to  what  I  have  said." 

A  few  moments  of  silence,  but  no  reply.     The 
speaker  went  on. 


118        THE  SEEN  AND  THE  UNSEEN. 

'*  We  are  too  much  inclined  to  look  at  death  as 
the  producer  of  some  great  change  in  our  inner 
lives.  We  talk  as  though  we  expected  to  put  off 
discontent  and  selfishness;  hardness  towards  the 
neighbor;  jealousies  and  anger;  all  the  evil 
things  we  cherish  in  our  minds — and  to  rise  into 
some  vaguely  conceived  states  of  celestial  blessed 
ness,  purity  and  peace.  My  sisters,  this  is  all  a 
vain  delusion.  Simply  and  nakedly  as  we  are 
when  we  die,  shall  we  rise  into  a  perception  of 
our  existence  in  the  spiritual  world.  There  are 
two  worlds,  remember — the  spiritual  and  the  na 
tural  ;  one  interior,  the  other  exterior ;  and  we 
live  in  both  of  them  at  the  same  time :— in  the 
outer  or  natural  world  as  to  our  bodies  and 
senses ;  in  the  inner  or  spiritual  world  as  to  our 
souls  and  mental  consciousness.  Now  we  dwell 
as  to  our  bodies  in  material  homes,  among  visible 
companions ;  and  at  the  same  time,  as  to  our  spi 
rits  in  homes  not  made  with  hands,  among  invisi 
ble  companions,  with  whom  our  minds  hold  inter 
course.  And  of  what  quality  are  these  compa- 


OUR    HEAVENLY    HOMES.  119 

nions  ?  Ah,  that  is  the  significant  question  !  Do 
they  lift  our  thoughts  heavenward,  or  hold  us  near 
the  earth  ?  Do  they  stimulate  pride  or  teach  us 
lessons  of  humility  ?  Are  they  ministers  of  dis 
content  or  resignation  ?  Do  they  inspire  love  of 
self  and  the  world,  or  love  of  God  and  the  neigh 
bor  ?  We  do  not  part  company  with  these  com 
panions  at  death — they  belong  to  our  inner  habita 
tion  ;  to  the  dwelling-places  that  we  are  building 
for  our  souls.  God  cannot  take  us  out  of  ourselves, 
for  that  would  be  to  destroy  us.  He  can  only  pro 
vide  for  our  happiness  according  to  the  free  deter 
mination  of  our  lives,  and  give  of  the  good  things 
of  his  love  and  wisdom  in  the  degree  that  we  are 
capable  of  receiving  them.  The  measure  can  be 
no  greater  and  will  be  no  less.  All  that  we  can 
receive,  he  will  give — for  he  is  the  good  Giver." 

No  one  ventured  a  reply,  for  the  sister's  words 
had  penetrated  the  region  of  conviction. 

"  And  so,  my  sisters,  let  us  not  turn  our  eyes 
longingly  away  to  an  imaginary  home  beyond  the 
grave,  which  we  can  never  find ;  but  inwardly 


120  THE    SEEN    AND    THE    UNSEEN. 

upon  ourselves,  in  careful  examination.  Let  us 
look  well  to  the  home  we  are  building,  and  to  the 
companions  with  whom,  in  our  hidden  hearts,  we 
most  delight  to  associate.  If  the  spirits  of  pride, 
indolence,  murmuring,  impatience,  self-indulgence, 
envy,  disregard  of  the  neighbor,  vaunting  esteem, 
and  conceit  of  personal  goodness,  dwell  with  us 
here,  we  shall  go  home  to  them  when  we  pass  to 
the  other  world.  But  if  patience,  meekness,  love 
of  the  neighbor  and  forgetfulness  of  self,  endu 
rance,  humble-minded  ness,  and  the  delight  of 
serving  others,  abide  in  our  souls,  we  shall  enter 
the  heavenly  mansions  where  angels  dwell  forever 
with  the  Lord.  Let  us  then  no  longer  keep  look 
ing  away  and  longing  for  the  time  of  going  home, 
but  rather  set  ourselves  diligently  to  the  work  of 
furnishing  the  homes  which  are  to  be  our  eternal 
abiding-place;  for,  as  we  make  them,  so  will  they 
be  found  when  we  come  to  enter  and  dwell  in 
them  consciously.  May  that  time  be  far  away, 
for  we  cannot  have  too  many  years  in  which  to 
build  and  people  our  heavenly  homes." 


OUR    HEAVENLY    HOMES.  121 

The  silence  that  followed  was  broken  by  the 
sick  woman,  who,  with  clasped  hands  and  tearful 
eyas  raised  heavenward,  thus  prayed  audibly — 

"  Lord,  give  thy  servant  patience  to  wait,  and 
diligence  to  work." 

And  the  murmuring  responses  that   met  her 

prayer,  showed  that  the  lesson  was  understood. 
11 


122        THE  SEEN  AND  THE  UNSEEN. 


XI. 

FORGIVENESS. 

A  MONG  the  varieties  of  individual  experience, 
•*••*•  we  occasionally  meet  with  a  singular  condi 
tion — utter  want  of  faith  in  God's  willingness  to 
forgive.  In  this  state  of  mind  was  a  lady  of  con 
siderable  intelligence,  and  well  known  for  her 
charities.  Early  in  life,  she  had  been  gay  and 
fashionable;  but,  after  thirty,  became  a  devout 
church  member. 

Mrs.  Olney  was  not  a  happy  Christian.  From 
the  very  commencement  of  her  religious  experi 
ence,  her  soul  dwelt  under  a  cloud.  That  "  God 
is  love,"  she  read  in  Scripture ;  and  she  also  read 
therein  this  other  declaration — "I  am  a  just 
God."  But,  from  some  mental  peculiarity,  she 
was  not  able  to  see  how,  in  forgiving  her  for  her 


FORGIVENESS  123 

past  transgressions,  God  could  be  in  harmony 
with  himself. 

"He  must  be  just  as  well  as  merciful,"  I  heard 
her  remark,  one  evening,  to  a  friend.  The  an 
swer,  to  which  I  listened,  went  over  the  common 
ground  of  atonement  for  the  satisfaction  of  jus 
tice.  I  watched  Mrs.  Olney's  face.  It  did  not 
brighten.  The  argument  failed. 

"Yes — yes — I  understand  all  that,"  was  her 
answer. 

"And  are  you  not  satisfied  to  rest  here?"  asked 
the  friend. 

"  No,"  was  the  despondent  reply. 

"Why  not?" 

"  Simply,  because  having  broken  the  law,  and 
thus  offended  God,  I  cannot  see  how  forgiveness 
is  possible.  My  early  life  was  an  insult  to  him. 
I  made  light  of  his  precepts ;  I  scorned  the  offers 
of  salvation.  When  he  said,  'Give  me  thy  heart,' 
I  turned  from  him,  and  laid  my  heart  an  offering 
upon  the  shrine  of  this  wicked  world.  And  now, 


124  THE    SEEN    AND   T1IE   UNSEEN. 

when  I  seek  him,  he  hides  his  face  from  me.  I 
am  in  terror,  but  he  mocks  at  my  fear." 

"  Every  one  that  asketh  receiveth  ;  and  he  that 
seeketh  findeth ;  and  to  him  that  knocketh,  it 
shall  be  opened."  So  answered  the  friend  in 
words  of  divine  truth. 

I  again  observed  the  lady's  face,  to  see  how 
this  clear  declaration  would  aifect  her.  For  a 
moment,  it  seemed  to  lighten ;  but  the  shadow 
was  not  lifted. 

"It  must  be  regarded  only  as  an  appearance 
that  God  is  angry,"  I  ventured  here  to  remark. 
"Divine  love — infinite  compassion — are  qualities 
adverse  to  anger.  The  wicked,  under  such  suf 
fering  and  restraint  as  are  the  consequences  of 
evil,  naturally  enough  attribute  their  pains  to  the 
angry  punishment  of  an  offended  God.  And 
when  God  speaks  in  warning  to  the  wicked,  it  is 
as  a  father  to  his  disobedient  children.  He  ap 
pears  with  signs  of  anger,  though  love  and  com 
passion  are  in  his  heart.  There  is  a  state  of  evil 
*mong  men,  which  will  obey  no  law  but  that  of 


FORGIVENESS.  125 

fear.  The  sword  must  be  unsheathed,  and  the 
right  arm  bared,  or  the  wicked  will  not  submit. 
This  is  the  state  addressed,  when  anger  and 
punishment  are  spoken  of  in  the  word.  God's 
infinite  love,  which  yearns  over  every  creature, 
was  veiling  itself  under  forms  of  wrath." 

She  listened  calmly,  and  with  evident  interest ; 
and  did  not  offer  any  suggestions  adverse  to  what 
I  had  said.  Still,  I  could  see  no  light  drifting 
through  the  shadows  on  her  face.  Her  mental 
condition  interested  me,  and  I  endeavored  to 
comprehend  its  meaning ;  but,  after  a  long  con 
versation,  I  found  myself  unable  to  get  down  to 
the  real  cause  of  her  morbid  state.  To  the  clear 
est  teaching  of  the  Bible,  and  the  fairest  conclu 
sions  drawn  therefrom,  she  had  only  her  doubts 
to  oppose.  They  were,  enshrouding  her  like  a 
pall,  and  no  sun-rays  of  truth  seemed  strong 
enough  to  scatter  them. 

"  I  cannot  see  it,"  was  the  answer  she  gave ; 
"  and  unless  /  can  see  it,  what  help  for  me  is 

there  in  all  you  say  ?"  . 

11* 


126  THE    SEEN    AND    THE    UNSEEN. 

J  was  interested  in  Mrs.  Olney.  So  far  as  her 
outward  life  was  concerned,  she  lived  in  obedience 
to  the  precepts  of  religion.  She  was  always  in 
her  place  at  church,  and  among  the  foremost  in 
the  various  uses  of  church  membership — a  devout 
worshiper,  and  a  doer  of  good  deeds.  If  any,  it 
seemed  to  me,  were  to  live  in  the  sunshine  of  spi 
ritual  confidence,  her  sky,  of  all  others,  should 
have  been  clear.  But,  clouds  and  obscurity  were 
there. 

"  Do  you  know  Mrs.  Olney  ?"  I  inquired  of  a 
most  excellent  lady,  who  was  a  member  of  the 
same  church  to  which  Mrs.  Olney  belonged. 

"  I  used  to  know  her,"  was  the  answer  received. 
"  But  we  have  not  spoken  for  ten  years." 

"  I  am  sorry  to  hear  you  say  this,"  I  returned. 
"Mrs.  Olney  is  a  true  woman,  if  I  read  her 
aright." 

"There  is  much  in  her  character  that  I  ad 
mire,"  said  the  lady,  "  and  from  all  that  I  hear  of 
her,  she  is  trying  to  lead  a  good  and  useful  life. 


FORGIVENESS.  127 

But,  she  bears  in  her  heart  a  spirit  of  unforgive- 
ness." 

"  Towards  whom  ?"  I  asked. 

"  Towards  me,"  she  answered.  "  I  was  so  un 
fortunate  as  to  offend  her  very  deeply.  The 
cause  of  offence  I  will  not  excuse.  I  am  not  sur 
prised  that  she  became  angry ;  nor  even  that  she 
refused,  for  a  long  time  afterwards,  to  regard  mo 
with  anything  but  displeasure.  The  act,  on  my 
part  has  been  sorely  repented — I  have  suffered, 
on  account  thereof,  painful  humiliation  of  spirit. 
I  condemn  it  as  wrong — I  have  put  far  from  me 
the  spirit  by  which  it  was  inspired ;  and  I  believe, 
that,  as  a  sin  before  God,  it  is  not  kept  in  remem 
brance  against  me.  If  Mrs.  Olney  could  only 
forget  and  forgive !" 

1  had  now  the  clue  to  Mrs.  Olney's  state.  It 
was  her  own  unforgiving  spirit  that  clouded  her 
mind.  In  her  idea  of  God,  there  was  an  attribu 
tion  of  perverted  human  passions;  and  as  she  was 
not  able  to  reach  a  state  of  forgiveness  towards 
her  friend,  so  she  found  it  impossible  to  under- 


128        THE  SEEN  AND  THE  UNSEEN. 

stand  how  God  could  put  aside  anger  and  receive 
her  with  divine  forgiveness. 

"Have  you  made  efforts  towards  a  reconcilia 
tion?"  I  asked. 

"  Not  of  late.  After  she  became  a  member  of 
our  church,  I  several  times  purposely  threw  my 
self  in  her  way;  but  she  refused  to  meet  my 
advances.  Once,  happening  to  be  in  the  same 
company,  where  conversation  was  general,  I  re 
sponded  to  a  remark  which  she  had  just  made; 
but  she  took  no  notice  of  me  whatever.  On  an 
other  occasion  we  were  introduced  by  a  mutual 
friend,  who  was  not  aware  that  we  had  met  be 
fore  ;  when  she  bowed  icily,  not  even  offering  her 
hand — and  after  standing  in  silence  for  a  few  mo 
ments,  turned  away,  and  moved  to  a  distant  part 
of  the  room." 

"  Has  she  spoken  against  you  ?"  I  further  in 
quired. 

"  I  fear  that  she  has,  judging  from  the  manner 
of  a  few  who  are  her  intimate  friends.  In  seve 
ral  instances,  I  have  observed  a  drawing  off  from 


FORGIVENESS.  129 

me,  and  a  standing  at  a  distance,  of  persons  who 
were  once  familiar  and  friendly.  The  cause  of 
this,  right  or  wrong,  I  have  laid  at  her  door. 
Not  that  I  believe  her  capable  of  trying  to  injure 
me  through  indulgence  of  any  vindictive  spirit — 
for  I  think  better  of  her  Christianity  than  that ; 
but,  not  having  forgiven  me  in  her  heart,  she 
finds  it  impossible  to  think  of  me  as  being  in  any 
essential  degree  changed  from  what  I  was  ten  or 
fifteen  years  ago,  and  so  not  only  retains  her  old 
dislike,  but  infuses  something  of  its  quality  into 
the  minds  of  her  intimate  friends." 

Now  I  understood  Mrs.  Olney's  case  better. 
At  our  next  meeting,  I  so  managed  the  conversa 
tion,  that  it  drifted  towards  herself  and  her  un 
happy  state  of  mind.  Shadows  gathered  over  her 
face ;  all  cheerfulness  died  away  from  her  tone?. 

"  I  have  thought  of  you  a  great  deal,  since  our 
last  conversation,"  said  I. 

This  expression  of  interest  naturally  opened 
her  mind  to  anything  I  might  say. 


130  THE    SEEN    AND    THE    UNSEEN. 

"  The  hindrance,"  I  added,  "  must  be  in  your 
self;  for  it  cannot  be  in  God." 

"  If  I  knew  the  hindrance !"  she  sighed  heavily. 

"  Is  it  not  possible,"  I  suggested,  "  that  some 
where  in  your  heart,  hidden  away  from  distinct 
consciousness,  dwells  an  unforgiving  spirit  ?" 

Her  eyes  were  cast  down  as  I  spoke ;  but,  she 
raised  them  instantly  from  the  floor,  in  a  half 
startled  way,  fixing  upon  me  a  look  of  inquiry. 

"It  often  happens,"  I  continued,  "that  our 
ideas  of  God  take  the  hue  of  interior  states.  We 
can  only  think  of  him  as  like-minded  with  our 
selves.  Angry  at  sin,  because  we  are  angry  when 
the  laws  we  make  are  violated ;  unforgiving,  be 
cause  we  cannot  forgive  those  who  trespass  against 
us." 

She  dropped  her  startled  eyes  away  from  mine, 
a'jd  let  them  rest  upon  the  floor  again. 

"There  may  be  much  involved  in  what  you 
say,"  she  remarked,  not  long  afterwards,  in  a  sub 
dued  voice.  "  Some  things  are  hard  to  forgive," 
she  added,  like  one  thinking  aloud. 


FORGIVENESS.  131 

"And  yet,"  I  ventured  to  say,  "only  in  the 
degree  that  we  forgive  men  their  trespasses,  can 
we  expect  God  to  forgive  our  trespasses — in  other 
words,  there  must  be  a  forgiving  state  in  our 
own  hearts,  before  we  can  have  any  realizing 
sense  of  the  Lord's  infinite  forgiveness." 

Evidently,  thought  with  her  was  flowing  in  a 
new  direction.  I  did  not  think  it  well  to  press 
the  subject,  but  left  her  to  continue,  or  change  it, 
as  she  might  feel  inclined. 

"  Do  you  really  think,"  she  asked,  "  that  God 
only  forgives  us  in  the  degree  that  we  exercise 
forgiveness  towards  others?" 

"  Literally,  that  is  the  teaching  of  Scripture," 
was  my  reply.  "  ( If  ye  forgive  not  men  their 
trespasses,  neither  will  your  heavenly  Father  for 
give  your  trespasses.'  But,  going  past  the  literal 
sense  of  this  law,  let  us  go  down  to  its  spirit.  A 
state  of  true  religion  is  a  state  of  love — love  to 
God  and  the  neighbor.  If  we  cannot  forgive,  we 
cannot  love.  God  is  not  angry — he  does  not  de 
cline  forgiveness — but,  because  of  our  unforgiving 


132        THE  SEEN  AND  THE  UNSEEN. 

states,  he  cannot  dwell  with  us  in  love.  Ever  he 
stands  at  the  door,  knocking,  and  asking  for  en 
trance.  It  is  for  us  to  open  the  door,  by  re 
moving  the  evil  things  set  in  it  as  bars  and  bolts ; 
and  until  we  do  this,  he  cannot  enter." 

A  window  was  opened  in  the  mind  of  Mrs.  Ol- 
ney,  through  which  clearer  light  came  in.  What 
she  had  regarded  as  only  a  just  displeasure  to 
wards  one  who  had  injured  her  in  past  times,  but 
whose  life  in  the  present  was,  to  human  eyes, 
blameless,  she  now  saw  to  have  in  it  the  hai'd 
qualities  of  an  unforgiving  spirit.  It  was  for 
what  had  been  done  to  her,  that  she  retained  dis 
like.  Mrs.  Olney  belonged  to  that  class  of  per 
sons,  who,  when  clearly  satisfied  in  regard  to  any 
course  of  action,  move  forward  with  resolute  self- 
compulsion.  First  she  decided,  that,  as  a  Chris 
tian  woman,  she  could  no  longer  hold  towards 
the  lady  of  whom  I  have  spoken  the  attitude  of 
a  stranger.  Next  came  the  question  as  to  how 
the  lady  was  to  be  approached— ^whether  for 
mally,  and  with  oral  reference  to  the  past ;  or,  by 


FORGIVENESS.  133 

friendly  advances,  when  next  they  happened  to 
be  thrown  together  in  company.  The  latter  me 
thod  was  chosen ;  and  the  opportunity  was  not 
long  delayed.  I  was  present,  and  witnessed  the 
unobtrusive  scene.  Perhaps  no  other  person  had 
any  conception  of  what  it  involved. 

The  lady  referred  to,  as  having  given  offence 
to  Mrs.  Olney  years  before,  was  sitting  on  one  end 
of  a  sofa.  She  had  been  conversing  with  a  friend 
who  had  just  risen  and  crossed  the  room,  leaving 
the  place  at  her  side  vacant.  At  this  moment,  I 
saw  Mrs.  Olney  quietly  pass  over,  and  occupy  the 
seat,  offering  her  hand  as  she  sat  down.  The 
hand  was  taken  and  held — not  at  once  relin 
quished.  Both  faces  were  in  full  view.  That 
of  Mrs.  Olney  was  considerably  heightened  in 
color ;  but,  its  expression,  though  subdued,  was 
frank  and  kind.  Over  the  other  face,  light  was 
leaping ;  and  I  saw  sudden  tears  almost  brim 
ming  the  eyes.  Only  for  a  short  time,  the  na 
tural  embarrassment  of  this  meeting  continued. 

The  tender  of  forgiveness  and  Christian  fellow- 
12 


134        THE  SEEN  AND  THE  UNSEEN. 

ship — for  all  that  was  involved — was  so  gladly 
accepted,  that  Mrs.  Olney  felt  her  heart  begin 
ning  to  warm  and  glow,  almost  immediately, 
with  new-born  pleasures. 

For  nearly  the  whole  of  that  evening,  these  two 
old  friends,  between  whom  a  gulf  of  years  had,  in 
a  moment,  been  bridged  over,  kept  close  together. 
There  was,  in  Mrs.  Olney's  countenance,  a  new 
expression.  All  the  clouds  which  had  rested 
over  it  for  so  long  a  period  were  swept  away,  and 
peace  dwelt  there  amid  sunshine.  The  reconcili 
ation  was  complete.  From  that  hour,  they  be 
came  tenderly  attached  to  each  other ;  and  were 
inseparable  co-workers  in  all  the  external  things 
appertaining  to  their  church  membership. 

"  You  have  come  up  from  the  valley  of  doubt," 
I  said,  in  meeting  her  not  long  aftewards. 

"  Yes,"  she  answered.  "  I  am  not  troubled  as 
in  former  times.  That  strange,  shadowed  state 
of  the  soul  no  longer  exists." 

"  Were  you  conscious  when  and  how  it  passed 


FORGIVENESS.  135 

away?  There  is  a  lesson  in  your  experience, 
from  which  others  may  profit." 

Mrs.  Olney  reflected  for  a  little  while. 

"  It  was  all  here,"  and  she  laid  her  hand  over 
her  heart.  "God's  love  was  not  withholdeu. 
The  obstruction  was  in  me.  The  memory  of 
wrong  was  cherished,  brooded  over,  held  almost 
as  a  sweet  morsel  under  my  tongue.  Not  being 
able  to  forgive,  I  could  not  realize  the  possibility 
of  forgiveness  in  God.  The  words  of  Scripture 
were  plain  enough ;  and  I  tried  to  rest  on  them 
with  confidence.  But,  external  faith  and  interior 
conviction,  are  very  different  things.  I  was  in 
darkness  and  doubt,  and  there  seemed  no  hope 
for  me.  But,  when  the  law  of  forgiveness  ruled 
in  my  own  soul,  doubt  and  darkness  fled  away. 
It  seemed  as  if  I  had  passed  from  a  narrow,  suffo 
cating  chamber,  out  into  the  free  air,  and  under  a 
cloudless  sky.  In  the  freedom  of  my  new  state, 
I  am  in  wonder  at  the  bondage  from  which  I 
have  been  delivered.  The  process  of  cause  and 
effect,  I  am  unable  to  follow.  I  only  know,  that, 


136        THE  SEEN  AND  THE  UNSEEN. 

whereas  I  was  blind,  now  I  see.  God  has  not 
changed,  for  he  is  unchangeable.  My  own  state 
has  governed  all." 

And  so  it  is  in  «very  religious  experience. 
Our  own  states  determine  our  ideas  of  God.  He 
is  to  us  an  angry  God,  because  we  are  angry  and 
vindictive  towards  others ;  a  hard  exacter  of  legal 
penalties,  because  we  will  have  the  uttermost  far 
thing  ;  slow  to  forgive,  because  there  is  a  spirit 
of  unforgiveness  in  our  hearts.  But,  when  love 
dwells  with  us,  He  is  love. 


T«   JT    WELL    WITH    YOU?  137 


XII. 

IS  IT  WELL  WITH  YOU? 

"  TS  it  well  with  you,  my  brother?"  Such  was 
-*-  the  preacher's  salutation.  He  was  not  a 
young  man,  standing  erect  in  conscious  strength, 
abounding  in  doctrine  and  clear  in  logic ;  nor  in 
the  vigor  of  middle  age,  with  full  fruited  boughs 
just  beginning  to  droop  from  their  proud  erect- 
ness  ;  but  an  old  man,  in  whom  perception  had 
taken  the  place  of  doctrine  and  logic — wise  be 
cause  good. 

"  Is  it  well  with  you,  my  brother  ?"  He  had 
grasped  the  hand  of  one  in  whose  house,  for 
many  "years,  had  been  set  apart  a  guest-chamber 
for  the  servant  of  God. 

"  I  trust  that  it  is  well  with  me,"  replied  the 
12* 


138        THE  SEEN  AND  THE  UNSEEN. 

host,  as  lie  returned  the  old  man's  greeting,  and 
then  led  him  into  the  house,  giving  him  of  the 
best  he  had  to  bestow. 

It  was  midday  when  the  preacher  arrived.  In 
the  evening,  he  sat  alone  with  his  brother  in  the 
church,  talking  on  themes  of  immortal  interest. 
At  first,  he  was  a  listener ;  and  then  the  thought 
of  his  brother  dwelt  wholly  in  things  of  natural 
life.  He  spoke  of  his  farm,  his  mill,  his  money 
at  interest,  and  the  prosperity  with  which  God 
had  blessed  him. 

"  He  hath  made  my  corn  and  wine  to  in 
crease,"  he  said,  with  a  confidence  that  was  near 
to  boastfulness. 

A  faint  sigh  parted  the  old  minister's  lips ;  and 
a  slight  shadow  veiled  the  sweet  serenity  of  his 
countenance. 

"  Have  you  never  thought,  my  brother,  that 
God's  increase  of  corn  and  wine,  means  something 
more  than  this  ?" 

The  question  had  a  disturbing  effect. 

"  That  there  are  corn  and  wine  for  the  soul's 


IS    IT    WELL    WITH    YOU?  139 

nourishment  and  growth,  as  well  as  corn  and 
wine  for  the  body  ?"  he  added. 

"  Doubtless  it  is  so,"  replied  the  brother,  with 
that  marked  falling  of  the  voice  which  accompa 
nies  the  reluctant  admission  of  truth  in  conflict 
with  an  existing  state  of  mind.  "  We  do  not 
live  by  bread  alone.  And  yet,  God  blesses  us  in 
our  basket  and  store — prospers  us  in  our  outgo 
ings  and  incomings." 

"His  providence  touches  us  in  the  minutest 
things  of  external  life,"  answered  the  preacher. 
"  When  it  is  well  with  us,  the  blessing  is  from 
his  hand.  But, "'well  with  us,'  has  a  higher  sig 
nificance  than  you  have  expressed  by  the  words 
'  basket  and  store.'  Is  it  well  with  you,  my  bro 
ther  ?  Let  me  put  the  question  again.  What  is 
the  state  of  your  mind  ?" 

"  I  trust  in  God,"  was  returned,  with  unfalter 
ing  speech.  "  I  know  in  whom  I  have  believed. 
Faith  is  the  anchor  of  my  soul." 

"  Your  acceptance  is  clear  ?" 

"  Yes."     Not  spoken  with  full  confidence. 


140        THE  SEEN  AND  THE  UNSEEN. 

There  followed  a  brief  silence. 

"  It  is  the  saddest  of  all  sad  things,  a  mistake 
in  this,  ray  brother,"  the  old  man  said,  with  an 
impressiveness  that  hurt  his  listener,  for,  both  in 
language  and  tone  was  an  intimation  that  he  was 
building  his  immortal  hopes  on  foundations  that 
might  not  stand. 

"  There  are  two  elements  that  go  to  make  up 
every  state  of  mind,"  continued  the  preacher, 
after  a  pause  in  which  there  was  no  response, 
"  thought  and  feeling.  The  thought  is  most  ex 
terior,  and  in  it  we  see  reflected,  as  from  a  mirror, 
the  feelings,  the  desires,  the  impulses  that  have 
in  them  the  essential  qualities  of  a  man's  life. 
But,  thought  has  wings,  and  the  power  to  rise 
into  higher  and  purer  regions — to  separate  itself, 
for  brief  periods,  from  its  bondage  to  low  and 
worldly  desire ;  and  thence,  the  danger  of  self- 
deception — of  considering  our  states  of  U'ansient 
thought,  and  not  our  states  of  permanent  feeling, 
as  the  just  expression  of  the  interior  quality  as  it 


IS    IT    WELL    WITH    YOU?  141 

is  seen  by  God.  Do  you  apprehend  me,  my 
brother?" 

"  In  a  degree,"  was  answered. 

"As  God  sees  us,  so  we  are;  and  as  we  are, 
when  death  finds  us,  will  be  our  state  in  the  other 
life.  Lovers  of  the  Lord's  kingdom,  or  lovers  of 
ourselves." 

"But,  how  can  we  see  ourselves  as  God  sees 
us  ?"  asked  the  brother,  with  a  suddenly  awaken 
ing  concern.  "  He  knows  our  hearts  better  than 
we  can  know  them.  Nay,  He  alone  knows 
them." 

"  True ;  but  He  has  given  us  the  clearest  in 
struction.  His  word  is  a  lamp  unto  our  feet  and 
a  light  unto  our  path.  It  is  full  of  heavenly 
teaching.  Let  us  ponder  a  single  passage,  and 
bring  onr  individual  lives  to  the  standard  therein 
proclaimed.  Speaking  of  the  godly,  or  regenerate 
man,  the  Psalmist  says,  'His  delight  is  in  the  law 
of  the  Lord.'  Mark  the  expression — His  delight. 
Now,  feeling,  of  which  delight  is  predicated,  is 
interior  to  thought.  When  there  is  delight  in 


142  THE    SEEN    AND   THE    UNSEEN. 

the  law,  then  there  is  meditation.  First,  the  de 
light;  then  the  medication — not  a  mere  transient 
uplifting  of  thought  to  purer  regions,  but  a 
dwelling  therein  with  love.  Ah,  my  brother ! 
Do  we  not  find  a  revelation  in  this  brief  passage, 
clear  as  noonday,  and  full  of  instruction  ?  Not 
one  to  discourage  us,  because  our  life  falls  far  be 
low  the  state  described;  but  one  full  of  encou 
ragement,  because  it  shows  us  that  to  which  our 
heavenly  Father  wishes  us  to  aspire.  And  now 
again,  as  one  sent  to  you  of  God — for  I  am  his 
servant,  and  he  has  laid  on  me  the  duty  of  win 
ning  souls — let  me  ask,  Is  it  well  with  you,  my 
brother?" 

How  very  tenderly,  in  his  seriousness,  did  the 
old  man  speak.  There  was  nothing  of  ambassa 
dorial  dignity ;  nothing  of  conscious  goodness ; 
nothing  that  said,  "I  am  holier  than  thou." 
But  such  winning  gentleness ;  such  pure  concern  ; 
such  earnest  solicitude,  that  the  brother  who  had 
been  losing  his  interest  in  spiritual  things  amid 
the  absorbing  life  of  natural  good — amid  his 


IS    IT    WELL    WITH    YOU?  143 

farm,  his  mill,  and  his  merchandise — felt  scales 
dropping  away  from  the  blinded  eyes  of  his  soul, 
and  saw  by  that  interior  light  which  comes  in 
from  heaven.  And  seeing,  he  answered,  with 
drooping  head  and  falling  voice — 

"  It  is  not  well  with  me,  I  fear.  My  delight 
is  not  in  the  law  of  the  Lord.  I  do  not  meditate 
thereon.  Perpetually,  my  thought  dwells  in  the 
things  of  this  world.  In  my  sowing  and  reaping; 
in  my  gathering  and  grinding;  in  my  gaining  and 
hoarding.  Even  as  the  rich  husbandman  in  the 
gospel,  whose  harvests  overflowed  his  barns,  I 
have  been  planning  to  pull  down  mine  and  build 
greater,  so  as  to  lay  up  goods  for  many  years. 
You  have  sent  a  tremor  of  fear  through  my 
heart ;  and  I  hear  a  strange,  solemn  voice,  ask 
ing,  t  What  if  thy  soul  be  required  of  thee  this 
night?'" 

"  Be  wise,  then,  my  brother.  Yet  do  not  take 
counsel  of  fear;  for,  in  fear  there  is  bondage. 
Love — delight — casteth  out  all  fear.  God's  true 
service  is  from  love  not  fear.  From  aifection,  not 


144        THE  SEEN  AND  THE  UNSEEN. 

from  constrained  obedience.  Is  this  clear  to  your 
mind?" 

"As  noonday,"  was  answered. 

"  You  did  not  see  this  a  little  while  ago,"  said 
the  preacher. 

"  I  knew  that  it  was  so ;  knew  it  from 
thought — but,  until  now,  not  from  perception. 
Ah,  my  brother !  You  have  shown  me  a  way  to 
walk  in  that  I  did  not  see  before;  but  it  is  a  more 
difficult  way,  and  I  do  not  see  the  gate  of  en 
trance.  I  can  think  and  do,  by  constraint ;  can 
force  my  thought,  for  a  time  at  least,  up  into 
heavenly  regions,  and  compel  myself  to  keep,  in 
act,  the  law  of  God.  But  I  cannot  change  my 
affections  by  any  effort  of  will ;  cannot  enforce  de 
light.  If  I  do  not  love  God's  law,  what  is  to 
help  me  ?  And  soberly  and  sadly,  T  fear  that  I 
do  not  love  it.  I  have  said,  often,  among  the 
brethren — '  This  is  my  assurance ;  Whereas,  once 
I  was  blind,  now  I  see ;  therefore,  have  I  passed 
from  death  unto  life ;' — but  now,  I  have  no  assu 
rance,  for  I  do  not  love  ;  and  love  is  the  fulfilling 


IS   IT    WELL    WITH    YOU?  145 

of  the  law.  You  have  come  to  me  as  a  disturber 
and  not  as  a  comforter.  I  believed  myself  one 
of  God's  chosen  ones ;  now  the  light  of  his  coun 
tenance  is  withdrawn." 

"It  is  never  withdrawn,"  answered  the 
preacher,  "but  always  turned  towards  the  chil 
dren  of  men.  God's  love  never  fails.  It  is  in 
love  that  he  now  troubles  you,  darkening  false 
hopes  that  he  may  establish  such  as  are  true  and 
abiding.  Over  the  heart  he  alone  has  empire. 
He  alone  can  change  its  quality;  he  alone  can 
give  that  delight  in  his  law  which  is  felt  by  an 
gels,  and  without  which  we  can  never  enjoy  their 
companionship." 

"  He  changes  the  heart,  I  know." 

"And  you  believed,  long  ago,  that  he  had 
changed  yours !" 

"I  did;  but,  alas!  I  am  not  changed.  My 
delight  is  not  in  his  law." 

"  You  left  Him  to  do  the  work  alone,"  said 
the  preacher,  "and  all  at  once.  To  wash  you 
every  whit  clean  from  inherited  evils  in  a  mo- 

13  K 


146        THE  SEEN  AND  THE  UNSEEN. 

ment  of  time.  And  in  the  belief  that  this  had 
been  done,  you  thought  yourself  fit  to  dwell  with 
angels ;  and  thus  secure,  turned  to  your  farm,  and 
your  mill,  and  gave  up  your  life  to  the  world. 
You  forgot  that  regeneration  must  progress  from 
the  feebleness  of  a  simple  vivified  germ  of  life,  to 
birth ;  and  onward  from  tender  infancy  to  the  sta 
ture  of  a  full  man — that  you  must  cooperate  with 
God,  and  work  out  your  salvation  with  fear  and 
trembling  before  him — that  while  he  stood  with 
out,  knocking,  you  must  open  the  door.  '  Behold 
I  stand  at  the  door  and  knock.  If  any  man  hear 
my  voice  and  open  the  door,  I  will  come  in  to 
him.'  The  opening  of  the  door  is  our  work,  my 
brother;  and  until  that  work  is  done,  the  Lord 
cannot  enter  and  give  delight  in  his  law." 
"  But  how  are  we  to  open  the  door  ?" 
"  That  question  involves  the  all  of  a  religious 
life,"  answered  the  preacher.  "And  until  it  is 
clearly  answered  and  fully  comprehended,  we 
grope  in  the  dark,  and  our  feet  stumble  along 
uncertain  ways.  But  here  again,  his  word  is  a 


IS    IT    WELL    WITH    YOUf  147 

lamp  unto  our  feet  and  a  light  unto  our  path. 
Note  this  remarkable  feature  in  the  Ten  Com 
mandments,  which  are  an  epitome  of  the  whole 
Divine  Word,  and  contain,  in  a  summary,  all  the 
laws  of  spiritual  life.  We  are  not  required  to  do 
difficult  or  impossible  things ;  but,  simply  not  to 
do  evil  things.  Not  to  have  idols ;  nor  take  the 
name  of  God  in  vain ;  nor  profane  the  Sabbath 
day  by  worldly  thoughts  and  employments;  not 
to  murder,  or  commit  adultery,  or  steal,  or  bear 
false  witness,  or  indulge  a  spirit  of  covetousness. 
I  have  often  heard  it  said  that  these  Divine  laws 
could  not  be  kept  by  man  ;  and  that  faith  alone 
and  not  obedience  must  save  him.  But,  herein 
lies  a  fatal  error.  Obedience  is  the  essential  of 
faith.  A  true  faith  in  God,  is  vital  with  effort. 
Just  look  at  these  commandments.  How  plain 
and  easy  the  way  they  point  out.  There  is  no 
requirement  of  good  deeds;  but  a  simple  shun 
ning  of  what  is  wrong.  '  Behold  I  stand  at  the 
door  and  knock.'  You  hear  the  summons,  but 
how  shall  the  door  be  opened  ?  What  will  draw 


148        THE  SEEN  AND  THE  UNSEEN. 

hack  the  bolt,  and  turn  the  rusty  hinges?  The 
answer  is  ready.  Put  away  evil." 

"  I  do  not  break  the  Ten  Commandments. 
So  far  as  they  go,  I  am  blameless,"  said  the 
brother. 

"  His  words  are  spirit  and  life,"  answered  the 
preacher.  "  To  the  mere  natural  man,  they  speak 
of  natural  things,  and  bind  him  by  external  re 
straints  ;  to  the  rational  man,  they  speak  a  higher 
language,  and  illustrate  his  reason  ;  to  the  spirit- 
aal  man,  they  give  divine  laws  for  the  govern 
ment  of  the  thoughts  and  intents  of  the  heart. 
The  natural  man  sees  in  the  precept,  'Thou  shalt 
not  steal/  only  a  prohibition  of  actual  theft ; 
while  the  rational  man  understands  it  as  binding 
him  to  upright  dealing ;  but,  the  spiritual  man 
looks  down  into  his  heart,  and  in  the  very  desire 
to  appropriate  to  himself  what  is  another's — goods, 
honor,  or  praise — recognizes  a  broken  command 
ment.  Nay,  my  brethren !  We  are  all  com 
mandment-breakers  in  some  degree  of  their  sig 
nificance.  And  it  is  in  ceasing  to  break  them,' 


IS    IT    WELL    WITH    YOU?  14? 

as  we  understand  them,  that  we  open  the  door  at 
which  the  Lord  stands  knocking.  At  his  en 
trance,  the  evil  desires  that  ruled  us  are  removed, 
and  he  implants  good  desires  in  their  stead. 

"And  now,"  continued  the  old  preacher,  in  his 
tender,  impressive  way,  "  let  me  add  this  essential 
doctrine,  which  must  ever  be  kept  in  mind.  Sim 
ply  of  ourselves,  we  can  do  nothing.  We  are  but 
finite — created — have  in  us  no  life  that  is  not  the 
perpetual  gift  of  God — and,  therefore,  cannot  even 
open  the  door  by  the  putting  away  of  evil,  except 
through  strength  from  above;  and  so,  in  every 
effort  of  resistance  to  evil  allurement,  we  must 
look  to  God  for  strength.  If  we  so  look,  in  ac 
knowledgment  of  our  weakness,  power  will  come, 
and  we  shall  say  effectually  as  he  said,  in  the 
hour  of  temptation,  '  Get  thee  behind  me,  Satan  !' 
Now,  if  it  be  well  with  you,  my  brother — if  you 
have  really  begun  to  open  the  door  of  your  heart — 
then  you  are  beginning  to  feel  delight  in  the  la\\ 
of  the  Lord ;  are  beginning  to  love  the  things  of 
heaven  more  than  the  things  of  this  world ;  and 

13* 


150  THE    SEEN    AND    THE    UNSEEN. 

to  desire  the  riches  of  Divine  love,  more  than 
gold  and  silver  that  perish ;  for,  just  in  the  de 
gree  that  God  enters  into  our  hearts,  does  he 
bring  in  with  him  aifections  opposite  to  those 
through  the  resistance  of  which  the  door  was 
opened.  But  if  there  be  none  of  this  love  and 
delight,  it  is  not  well  with  you,  my  brother." 

"  It  is  not  well  with  me,  I  fear,"  was  answered 
in  all  sadness  of  spirit;  "but,  God  helping  me,  I 
will  open  the  door  at  which  I  hear  him  knocking, 
and  may  he  give  me  delight  in  his  law." 

On  the  morning  of  the  third  day,  the  white- 
haired  preacher  left  his  benediction,  and  passed 
onward.  Many  days  afterwards,  as  his  enter 
tainer  stood  at  the  door  of  the  empty  guest-cham 
ber  and  looked  in,  these  few  words  fell  softly 
from  his  lips,  "An  angel  unawares."  A  short 
space  he  lingered  with  clasped  hands,  and  eyes 
most  earnestly  glancing  upwards.  There  had 
come,  even  as  he  stood  there,  an  evil  allurement, 
and  with  prayer  to  God  for  strength,  he  had  re 
sisted  its  power.  Then  flowed  in  through  the 


IS    IT    WELL    WITH    YOU? 


151 


open  door  of  his  heart  a  love  of  good,  before 
which  that  evil  enticement  disappeared,  as  night 
when  the  day  advances,  and  his  soul  was  filled 
with  blessedness  and  peace. 


152        THE  SEEN  AND  THE  UNSEEN. 


XIII. 


"  TF  I  were  only  in  heaven  !" 

-*-  There  are  few  mortal  lips  from  which  these 
words,  or  something  equivalent  to  them,  have  not 
fallen  in  hours  of  pain,  sorrow,  or  disappointment, 
when  hope  in  the  world  grew  faint,  and  the  old 
foundations  of  happiness  seemed  crumbling  into 
ruin. 

"  If  I  were  only  in  heaven  !" 

The  words  came  sighing  through  pale  lips. 

"And  you  expect  to  go  there?" 

The  tone  in  which  this  was  said  expressed  a 
doubt. 

"  We  all  expect  to  reach  heaven  at  last.  God 
is  merciful." 

"  He  is  good  to  all,  and  kind  even  to  the  un 
thankful  and  evil.  But  what  is  heaven  ?  Three 


IF   I  WEUE  ONLY   IN   HEAVEN. 


Page  152. 


IF    I    WERE    ONLY    IN    HEAVEN.  153 

times,  within  a  few  days,  I  have  heard  you  wish 
yourself  there." 

"  Heaven  is  a  place  of  happiness ;  there  are  no 
tears  there ;  no  sorrow ;  no  pain  ;  no  cruel  disap 
pointments,  nor  heart-rending  separations.  Hea 
ven  is  heaven.  The  very  word  is  full  of  signifi 
cation." 

"  And  you  expect  to  go  there  ?" 

A  second  time  was  this  uttered,  and  now  the 
doubt  it  expressed  quickened  in  the  mind  of  the 
complainer  a  feeling  that  was  rather  more  of  earth 
than  heaven. 

"  You  seem  to  question  my  fitness,"  she  said, 
with  just  a  shadow  of  indignation  in  her  voice. 

"  Far  be  it  from  me  to  judge  the  state  of  any  one. 
God  alone  knoweth  the  hearts  of  his  children." 

"And  still,  you  ask,  in  a  doubting  way,  if  I 
expect  to  go  to  heaven  when  I  die." 

"  To  a  place  of  happiness,  which  lies  in  the  far 
distance,  and  towards  which  we  sail  through  life 
as  mariners  on  a  perilous  voyage  ?" 

"  Yes ;  the  haven  of  felicity." 


154        THE  SEEN  AND  THE  UNSEEN. 

"Where  you  trust  to  moor  your  time-worn 
bark  when  the  stormy  ocean  is  crossed  ?" 

"  Yes ;  trusting  in  God's  mercy." 

"  I'm  afraid  you  will  be  disappointed,"  said 
she  who  had  assumed  the  office  of  monitor. 

The  pale  cheek  of  the  complainer  flushed,  and 
her  sad  eyes  threw  out  some  rays  of  light  that 
gleamed  from  an  earth-enkindled  fire. 

"  Heaven  is  not  in  the  far  distance,"  continued 
her  friend.  "  We  do  not  reach  it  at  the  end  of 
our  earthly  journey.  We  must  enter  long,  long 
before  that  time,  or  its  sweet  rest  and  peace  can 
never  be  ours.  And  we  are  in  heaven  when  our 
souls  are  filled  with  heavenly  affections.  This 
infilling  of  the  soul  alone  takes  place  on  earth ; 
and  thus  we  enter.  We  must  have  some  of  the 
joys  of  heaven  here,  or  we  cannot  receive  its 
fuller  delights  when  mortal  puts  on  immortality. 
The  life  of  heaven  must  be  born  in  us  in  time,  or 
it  cannot  be  developed  in  eternity.  Your  present 
state,  my  dear  friend,  is  not  one  of  preparation 
for  that  paradise  towards  which  your  eyes  stretch 


IF    I    WERE    ONLY    IN    HEAVEN.  155 

so  longingly,  but  one  of  self-affliction  and  vain  re- 
pinings.  You  are  closing  your  heart  to  heavenly 
influences,  instead  of  opening  it  to  their  reception. 
I  speak  plainly,  for  you  have  all  at  stake." 

The  flush  faded  from  the  complainer's  cheeks ; 
her  eyes  lost  the  sudden  brightness  which  had 
gleamed  out  upon  her  friend  ;  and  she  sat  silently 
pondering  this  strange  language — strange  to  her — 
while  a  shade  of  fear  crept  into  her  heart.  Were 
her  hopes  of  heaven  resting,  indeed,  on  so  sandy 
a  foundation?  Was  she  vainly  looking  beyond 
the  darkness  in  which  she  sat  to  a  world  of 
brightness  and  beauty  ?  Would  there  be  no  hea 
ven  for  her  to  enter  when  the  weary  burden  of 
life  was  laid  down?  The  questions  crowded 
upon  her. 

"Come  out  from  beneath  the  shadows  with 
which  you  have  surrounded  yourself,"  said  the 
friend,  "and  enjoy  the  cheerful  sunlight.  In 
stead  of  idly  longing  for  a  heaven  that  lies  afar 
off,  receive  heaven  in  your  heart,  in  the  delight 
that  flows  in  with  all  good  deeds.  Be  a  worker 


156        THE  SEEN  AND  THE  UNSEEN. 

in  the  vineyard  of  your  Lord,  not  a  weak  repiner  j 
a  faithful  servant,  not  a  talent-hider.  They  who 
are  entering  heaven  grow  more  and  more  peaceful 
in  spirit;  more  and  more  resigned  to  the  Father's 
will ;  more  and  more  willing  to  work  and  wait 
in  patient  hope.  Instead  of  wishing  themselves 
in  heaven,  as  a  place  of  rest  afar  off,  they  are 
daily  tasting  of  its  sweet  felicity." 

"  You  take  away  the  foundations  on  which  my 
feet  have  rested.  You  scatter  my  hopes  to  the 
wind.  I  have  looked  to  you  for  consolation,  but 
you  have  none  to  offer." 

"  If  I  have  broken  the  foundations  on  which 
your  feet  rested,  it  is  that  you  may  plant  them 
more  surely  on  the  Rock  of  Ages.  If  I  have 
scattered  vain  hopes  to  the  wind,  it  is  in  order 
that  living  hopes  may  spring  up  in  your  heart. 
If  you  have  looked  to  me  for  consolation,  and 
found  it  not,  then,  I  pray  you,  look  higher ;  even 
unto  Him  who  says,  '  Come  unto  Me,  all  ye  that 
labor  and  are  heavy-laden,  and  I  will  give  you 
rest.' " 


IF    I    WERE    ONLY    IN    HEAVEN.  15* 

"But  my  heart  is  crushed.  I  have  no 
strength;  no  hope  in  life;  all  that  I  held  dear 
nas  departed ;  and  I  have  only  wished  to  die  and 
be  at  peace." 

"There  are  other  crushed  hearts;  others  wit  lout 
hope ;  others  from  whom  all  the  dear  ones  have 
departed.  Think  of  them,  and  of  their  loneliness 
and  suffering  instead  of  your  own ;  and  as  pity 
conies  into  your  heart,  think  whether  it  is  in  your 
power  or  not  to  ease  a  pain;  to  send  a  ray  of  com 
fort  into  a  mind  sitting  in  darkness ;  to  speak  a 
word  that  may  reach  the  mourner  with  consola 
tion.  God  is  the  great  Comforter,  but  he  acts 
through  angels  and  men  in  his  ministrations  of 
good,  thus  making  his  blessings  double.  They 
who  act  with  him  are  partakers  in  the  peace,  joy, 
and  consolation  that  flow  through  them,  and  are 
thus  received  into  heaven,  while,  as  to  the  body, 
they  are  still  in  the  world  of  nature." 

For  awhile  after  this  plain-talking  friend  had 
left,  the  lady  sat  in  her  usual  place  in  the  dim, 
closely-curtained  room,  where  most  of  her  time 


158        THE  SEEN  AND  THE  UNSEEN. 

was  spent.  But  the  truths  which  had  been  ut 
tered  in  her  ears  did  not  pass  as  the  idle  winds. 
She  dwelt  on  them,  pondering  their  scope  and 
meaning,  and  seeing  them  in  clearer  and  clearer 
light.  But  states  of  feeling  soon  turn  our 
thoughts  in  their  own  direction.  It  was  not  long 
before  she  was  musing  on  her  unhappy  condition, 
and  in  the  weariness  of  life  that  came  back  upon 
her,  she  murmured  the  oft-repeated  words — 

"  Oh,  if  I  were  only  in  heaven !  If  I  could 
only  die  and  be  at  peace !" 

Then  came  back  the  suggestions  of  her  friend ; 
and  with  such  a  force  of  conviction  that  she 
clasped  her  hands  together,  and  rising  up,  moved 
in  some  agitation  of  mind  about  the  room.  As 
she  did  so,  the  thought  of  a  poor  sick  woman  in 
the  neighborhood  came  into  her  mind.  She  had 
heard  of  her  serious  illness  on  the  day  before,  but 
let  the  intelligence  pass  with  only  a  word  of  pity. 
It  did  not  once  occur  that  she  ought  to  go,  or 
send  to  the  woman's  relief.  Now  the  thought  of 


IP  I  WERE  ONLY  IN  HEAVEN.        159 

her  came  with  a  suggestion  of  duty,  and  acting 
upon  that  suggestion,  she  rang  the  bell. 

"  Mary,"  she  said,  as  a  domestic  came  in  to  an 
swer  to  the  bell,  "  have  you  heard  from  Mrs.  Ellis 
to-day  ?" 

"  Yes,  ma'am,"  was  replied. 

"How  is  she?" 

"  Very  sick,  ma'am,  they  say." 

"What  ails  her?"    • 

"  Pleurisy,  I  think,  ma'am." 

"  Have  you  been  over  to  see  her  ?" 

"  No,  ma'am." 

"  I  wish  you  would  step  in  and  see  how  she  is, 
Mary.  She  may  be  suffering  for  want  of  proper 
attention.  I  would  like  to  know." 

The  girl  left  the  room  with  a  look  of  surprise 
on  ner  face  that  did  not  escape  the  lady's  notice. 
Its  meaning  was  partly  understood. 

"  How  did  you  find  her,  Mary  ?"  was  asked 
when  the  girl  returned. 

"I  wish  you  could  only  see  for  yourself, 
ma'am,"  said  Mary.  "  It  would  make  your 


160        THE  SEEN  AND  THE  UNSEEN. 

heart-ache.  If  somebody  don't  look  after  her 
she'll  die,  and  then  what  will  become  of  her  poor 
little  babies  ?" 

There  was  a  look  of  real  distress  in  the  girl's 
face. 

"  Is  she  is  in  want  of  anything  ?"  inquired  the 
lady. 

"  O  ma'am,  won't  you  just  step  over  and  see 
for  yourself,"  was  answered  in  an  appealing  way. 
"  She  is  in  want  of  everything ;  I  don't  believe 
her  poor  little  children  have  had  anything  to  eat 
this  day !" 

"  Mary !" 

"  Indeed,  ma'am,  and  I  shouldn't  wonder  at 
all.  To  think  of  it,  in  a  Christian  neighbor 
hood  !" 

"Somebody  should  have  looked  after  her,"  said 
the  lady,  in  a  tone  meant  to  blame  every  other 
person  in  the  neighborhood  except  herself. 

"  What's  everybody's  business  is  nobody's  busi 
ness,"  replied  the  girl. 

The  sight  that  met  tta  lady's  eyes,  when,  under 


IF   I    WEttE   ONLY   IN    HEAVEN.  161 

the  force  of  a  strong  self-compulsion,  she  entered 
the  room  where  this  sick  woman  lay,  gave  her, 
too,  the  heart-ache.  Alone,  exhausted  with  pain, 
without  fire  or  food  for  her  children,  or  medicine 
for  herself,  she  was  stretched  on  a  hard  straw  bed, 
which  no  hand  had  beaten  up  or  smoothed  for 
days.  As  the  lady  came  in,  a  gleam  lit  up  her 
dull  eyes,  which  turned  with  an  appealing  look 
to  the  three  little  children  who  were  sitting  close 
together  in  silence  on  the  floor.  From  the  in 
stant  that  weary  complainer  entered  this  room, 
she  forgot  herself  in  an  overpowering  pity.  A 
few  questions  were  asked  and  answered — then 
prompt  hands  and  a  prompt  will  changed  the 
whole  aspect  of  things.  There  were  food,  medi 
cine,  warmth  and  comfort,  in  a  room  where,  a 
little  while  before,  all  was  cold,  desolate,  and 
exhausted.  As  the  lady  looked  around,  and 
thought  of  the  change  a  few  words  and  deeds  had 
wrought  as  if  by  magic — saw  the  look  of  peace, 
rest  and  hope  which  had  settled  over  the  sick  wo 
man's  pale  face,  and  followed  her  almost  smiling 

14*  L 


162        THE  SEEN  AND  THE  UNSEEN. 

eyes,  as  she  looked  after  her  cleanly  dressed  and 
now  happy  children — she  felt  a  deeply  penetrating 
glow  of  satisfaction,  and  a  sense  of  tranquility  to 
which  she  had  long  been  a  stranger.  She  had 
forgotten  herself  in  an  earnest  desire  to  help 
another,  and  the  heavenly  delight  that  always 
springs  from  good  deeds  done  from  right  impulses 
was  flowing  into  her  soul. 

"  How  is  it  with  you  to-day  ?"  asked  the  friend 
who  had  spoken  so  plainly.  It  was  a  week  after 
this  first  visit  to  the  sick  woman.  She  was  hold 
ing  the  lady  by  the  hand,  and  looking  earnestly 
into  her  countenance,  which  had  more  light  and 
hope  in  it  than  she  had  seen  there  for  a  long 
time. 

"As  well  as  I  could  expect."  A  faint  smile 
hovered  around  her  sad  lips,  hiding  the  pain 
which  lay  there  like  a  shadow  from  some  moun 
tain  of  sorrow. 

"Ah,  what  little  girl  is  this  ?" 

A   child   had   entered    the   room   in    a   quiet, 


IF    I    WERE    ONLY    IN    HEAVEN.  163 

half-timid  way,  and  not  with  the  confidence  of  a 
genuine  home  feeling. 

"  The  child  of  a  poor  sick  woman  in  the  neigh 
borhood,"  was  answered.  "  The  mother  was  very 
ill,  and  there  was  no  one  to  see  after  this  little 
one.  I  brought  her  home.  She  has  been  here 
for  several  days." 

"  You  have  been  to  see  her  mother,  then  ?" 

"  Oh,  yes ;  I've  called  over  every  day  to  see 
after  her.  She  would  have  died,  I  believe,  if  I 
had  not  met  her  case  promptly.  It  is  shameful 
to  think  how,  in  the  very  midst  of  a  rich  neigh 
borhood  of  people  calling  themselves  Christians, 
a  sick  woman  may  be  left  to  suffer  and  die  with 
out  a  hand  being  raised  to  help  her.  I  wouldn't 
have  believed  it,  if  this  case  had  not  come  under 
my  immediate  notice." 

"  I  see,"  said  the  friend,  still  holding  the  lady's 
hand,  and  smiling  into  her  face,  "  why  that  old, 
sad,  life-weary  look  has  departed." 

An  answering  smile  lit  up  suddenly  the  lady's 
countenance. 


164        THE  SEEN  AND  THE  UNSEEN. 

"  Has  it  departed  ?"  she  asked,  half  Avondering 
at  her  friend's  remark. 

"  Yes,  and  may  it  never  return  to  tell  of  brood 
ing  self-torlure,  and  idle  longings  after  that  hea 
venly  peace  in  the  far-off  future,  which  never 
comes  except  as  the  fulness  of  a  heavenly  peace 
that  flows  into  the  soul  while  patiently  doing  its 
work  in  the  harvest-fields  of  time.  You  have 
opened  the  gate  of  heaven,  my  dear  friend,  and 
your  feet  are  upon  the  threshold.  The  first  draft 
of  its  pure  crystalline  air  has  swelled  your  lungs 
with  a  new  sense  of  pleasure,  and  given  to  your 
heart  new  pulsations  of  delight.  Do  not  linger 
in  the  outer  courts,  but  enter  in,  daily,  by  good 
deeds  done  in  the  name  of  our  common  humanity. 
Sit  no  longer  idle.  A  stagnant  mind,  like  stag 
nant  water,  breeds  noxious  vapors  and  hideous 
monsters.  Health  and  happiness  come  only  in 
active  duty.  If,  at  home,  you  find  not  work 
enough  to  keep  your  thoughts  and  hands  busy, 
go  abroad,  and  by  good  deed  and  good  example, 
become  a  co-worker  with  the  angels,  into  whose 


IF    I    WERE    ONLY    IN    HEAVEN.  1G5 

blessed  ( ompany  you  have  so  many  times  desired 
to  enter  through  the  gate  of  death.  We  must  be 
come  associated  with  them  here,  my  friend,  or  we 
cannot  enter  into  their  society  above.  Heaven  is 
a  state  of  mutual  love ;  but  if  we  are  mere  lovers 
of  self  here — idle  repiners  instead  of  active  ser 
vants  in  the  Lord's  work  of  doing  good — how 
can  we  pass  by  death  into  heaven  ?  Death  only 
separates  the  soul  from  its  mortal  body ;  it  makes 
no  change  in  its  quality.  What  we  are  as  to  qua 
lity — good  or  evil  j  selfish  or  unselfish — when  we 
depart  hence,  will  we  remain  to  eternity.  And 
so,  my  friend,  if  you  wish  to  come  fully  into  hea 
ven  when  you  die,  press  forward  through  the  gate 
by  which  you  have  now  entered,  and  the  further 
you  progress  here,  the  higher  will  be  your  posi 
tion  when,  at  the  close  of  this  earthly  life,  it. shall 

* 

be  said  unto  you — '  Come,  ye  blessed  of  my  Fa 
ther,  inherit  the  kingdom  prepared  for  you  from 
the  foundation  of  the  world !'  " 


166        THE  SEEN  AND  THE  UNSEEN 


XIV. 

UNDER  A  CLOUD. 

'*  TT7HAT  a  joyous  creature !"  said  a  friend, 
glancing,  as  he  spoke,  towards  an  attrac 
tive  girl,  whose  laugh  rang  out  at  the  moment, 
and  went  musically  fluttering  through  the  rooms. 
"  It  always  does  me  good  to  meet  the  outflowing 
life  of  such  a  being.  She  is  like  a  ruddy  blossom 
in  a  bed  of  sombre-hued  plants,  catching  the 
sunbeams,  and  throwing  them,  by  reflection,  all 
around  her." 

"She  is  a  fair,  human  flower,"  I  answered, 
'"'  with  rich  stores  of  perfume  in  her  heart ;  only, 
I  have  thought,  sometimes,  a  little  too  gay  and 
joyous.  She  seems  to  live  in  perpetual  sur- 
shine." 

"  I  see  no  objection  in  that.  Flowers  grow  in 
the  sunshine.  It  is  their  life-imparting  element," 


UNDER    A    CLOUD.  167 

was  returned.  "Give  me  the  radiant  natures; 
souls  that  dwell  beneath  unclouded  skies ;  hearts 
that  know  no  shadows." 

"  The  sky  is  not  always  sunny,"  I  remarked. 

My  friend  looked  at  me,  as  one  who  did  not 
clearly  see  the  drift  of  this  sentence. 

"  There  are  intervals,  in  which  clouds  obscure 
the  heavens — intervals  of  rain." 

He  looked  at  me  still ;  a  slight  change  passing 
over  his  face,  as  if  some  unpleasant  thoughts  were 
coming  into  his  mind  ;  but  did  not  reply. 

"  Are  not  clouded  skies,  and  falling  rains,  also 
good  for  the  flowers?  Would  their  richest 
beauty — their  sweetest  odors — come  out,  if  they 
dwelt  only  in  the  sunshine?  Nay,  more  than 
this,  would  the  fruit-germ  perfect  itself  fully  in 
the  flower-heart,  if  there  were  given  only  hot,  un- 
tempered  and  over  stimulating  beams  of  light 
from  time  opening  bud  to  falling  petal  ?" 

My  friend  was  yet  silent.  The  illustration 
brought  doubts  and  queries  not  easily  set  aside. 

"  The  soul  is  not  a  flower,"  he  said,  at  length. 


168        THE  SEEN  AND  THE  UNSEEN. 

"Because  plants  need  the  alternations  of  rain  and 
sunshine,  does  it  follow  that  the  same  is  true  of 
our  souls  ?" 

"  There  is  a  perfect  correspondence  between  the 
soul  and  nature,"  T  returned  j  "  for  was  not  the 
world  of  nature  created  for  man  ?  And,  if  cre 
ated  for  him,  must  it  not  in  all  things  correspond 
to  what  is  in  him  ?  If  it  were  not  so,  how  would 
it  be  possible  for  him  ever  to  'be  at  one  with  na 
ture?  Granting  this  perfect  correspondence,  then, 
as  to  objects  and  their  relations  in  the  phenome 
nal  world,  with  the  inner  world  of  mind,  will  not 
growths,  processes  and  developments  in  the  latter, 
advance  by  corresponding  laws  to  final  results? 
So,  nature  becomes,  in  a  higher  degree,  our 
teacher." 

The  merry  laugh  rang  out  again.  It  was  near 
us, — the  maiden  had  crossed  the  room,  her  arm 
drawn  within  that  of  another  maiden,  and  now 
stood  the  centre  of  a  little  group.  The  laugh 
was  musical  as  before ;  and  yet,  something  of  its 
sweetness  to  the  ear  was  gone.  We  paused  to 


UNDER    A    CLOUD.  169 

observe  her,  and  could  not  help  but  hear  the  sen 
tences  that  dropped  from  her  lips.  Flippant  tri 
fles  first — then  a  thoughtless  personality,  that 
must  have  hurt  the  one  at  whom  it  was  thrown — 
and  then  a  witty  sarcasm,  at  the  expense  of  an 
excellent,  but  peculiar  lady,  who  made  one  of  the 
company. 

"  Too  much  sunshine,"  I  remarked,  leaning  to 
my  friend,  as  the  group  separated,  and  our  merry 
maiden  passed  beyond  the  range  of  our  voices. 
"  The  life  blood  is  too  abundant — the  growth  too 
lusty.  She  needs  the  tempering  of  clouds  and 
rain." 

"  Trouble — sorrow — or  sickness.  Is  that  what 
you  mean  ?" 

"Whatever  God  sees  best,"  was  my  answer. 
"  He  knoweth  the  heart,  and  understandeth  what 
discipline  is  needed.  She  is  with  him,  and  he 
will  not  suffer  the  good  in  her  to  be  lost." 

Again    the    bird-like,    warbling    laugh    went 

through  the  rooms.     A  sigh,  almost  at  the  same 

.  moment,   parted   my   friend's   lips.      Either   my 

15 


170        THE  SEEN  AND  THE  UNSEEN. 

suggestions,  or  the  want  of  harmony  between  the 
beautiful  and  glad  exterior  of  the  maiden  and  the 
glimpses  she  had  given  of  her  inner  state,  had 
changed  his  feeling  towards  her.  He  was  disap 
pointed,  as  we  so  often  are  in  plucking  a  beautiful 
but  unfamiliar  flower,  to  find  the  odor  unpleasant. 

"  Perhaps  you  are  right,"  he  said,  in  a  changed 
voice.  "  There  may  be  need  of  clouds  and  rain." 

"  There  is  always  need  of  them,"  I  remarked  ; 
"just  as  much  need  of  them  for  the  perfection  of 
a  human  soul,  as  for  the  perfection  of  a  plant  or  a 
tree.  When  the  poet  said — 

'Into  each  life  some  rain  must  fall, 
Some  days  must  be  dark  and  dreary,' 

he  was  not  playing  with  figures  of  speech,  but 
uttering  a  truth  of  universal  application." 

"  It  may  be  so,"  the  friend  remarked,  with  in 
creasing  sobriety  of  manner — "  but,  I  cannot  see 
why  the  soul,  of  necessity,  must  have  dark  days 
and  rainy  seasons  for  the  perfection  of  its  life.  I 
cannot  see  why  one  like  Miss  Saroni,  for  instance, 


UNDER    A    CLOUD.  171 

may  not  grow  into  a  true,  loving  and  perfect  wo 
manhood,  and  yet  dwell  always  in  sunshine.  I 
know  that  our  higher  nature  must  be  developed ; 
that  we  must  rise  above  the  natural  into  the  spi 
ritual,  and  become  heavenly-minded.  But,  I  am 
of  those  who  do  not  believe  in  a  gloomy,  self- 
tormenting  religion.  Why  should  doing  right, 
and  being  right,  according  to  God's  precepts, 
shadow  a  man's  soul  ?" 

"  It  is  right  living  that  breaks  the  clouds  which 
darken  our  sky,"  was  my  answer.  "  Religion  is 
life — a  life  in  harmony  with  divine  precepts. 
The  natural  life  into  which  we  are  born  is  below 
this,  and  responsive  to  the  world  of  nature — un 
happily,  through  inherited  evils,  always,  in  its  de 
velopment,  turning  itself  away  from  good.  Did 
you  not  observe  that  tendency  in  Miss  Saroni? 
Bright,  happy,  lovely  as  she  is,  a  contempt  for 
others  has  already  found  a  place  in  her  mind. 
Will  not  that  feeling  under  the  strong  stimulant 
of  sunshine,  grow  vigorously  ?  Depend  upon  it, 
there  must  be  dark  days,  winter  and  rain  for  her, 


172        THE  SEEN  AND  THE  UNSEEN. 

as  for  all.  A  new  ground  must  be  prepared  in 
her  mind  ;  new  seeds  sown — even  spiritual  seeds, 
which  are  divine  truths — and  these  must  be  shel 
tered  from  scorching  heats,  and  receive  dews  and 
rains.  So,  of  necessity,  in  order  that  the  first 
life,  which  is  by  nature  evil  and  selfish,  may  re 
cede,  and  permit  a  new  life  to  be  born,  states  of 
trouble,  of  sorrow,  or  affliction,  must  come.  If 
man  had  not  fallen  from  his  first  estate,  all  would 
have  been  different.  His  natural  life,  developed 
in  just  order,  would  have  been  as  a  garden  ready 
for  spiritual  seed,  which  being  cast  into  the  earth, 
would  have  germinated  and  grown  into  goodly 
plants  bearing  spiritual  fruit.  But  it  is  different 
now.  The  natural  mind  is  filled  with  evil  seeds, 
and  the  growth  of  evil  plants  is  rank  and  rapid. 
It  follows,  that  unless  these  be  removed,  hurt  or 
hindered  in  some  way,  no  good  seed  can  find  a 
lodgment  or  grow.  The  hurting,  the  hindering 
and  the  removing,  take  place  for  the  most  part, 
through  misfortunes,  afflictions,  sickness,  or  trou 
bles,  by  which  natural  things  recede  from  the 


UNDER    A    CLOUD  173 

affections,  and  the  soul  is  led  to  aspire  after  hea 
venly  and  eternal  things.  We  must  all  pass  un 
der  the  cloud ;  we  must  all  have  gloomy  days ; 
we  must  all  suffer,  that  life  from  heaven  may  be 
born  within  us." 

A  few  years  of  sunshine  followed,  in  which  our 
young  friend  did  not  grow  more  lovely  in  spirit, 
though  richly  endowed  both  in  mind  and  person. 
Beauty  made  her  vain ;  mental  superiority  caused 
her  to  think  with  contempt  of  those  with  feebler 
endowments ;  wealth,  instead  of  being  thankfully 
accepted,  created  a  feeling  of  superiority.  Vanity, 
pride,  self-estimation,  contempt  for  inferiors — 
such  were  the  evil  plants  fast  attaining  to  a  full 
growth  in  her  mind.  It  was  needful,  in  the  wise 
previsions  of  a  good  Providence,  that,  to  save  her 
and  others  from  the  sad  fruitage  of  these,  she 
must  pass  under  a  cloud.  And  so,  dark  days 
came — angry  skies  and  swift-driving  tempests. 

I  did  not  see  her  during  these  dark  days;  but 
afterwards,  I  met  her  frequently.  What  a  beauty 
there  was  in  her  life!  She  had  been  long  under 

15* 


174        THE  SEEN  AND  THE  UNSEEN. 

the  cloud,  and  the  shadows  it  left  still  lingered 
about  her  face;  but,  as  thought  and  feeling  stirred 
in  her,  responsive  to  your  touch,  how  sweetly  the 
quiet  smiles  broke  through !  There  remained  in 
her  lower  tones,  a  memory  of  past  suffering,  that 
touched  you  at  times;  but  her  words  were  ever 
cheerful.  Of  others,  she  spoke  with  considerate 
kindness ;  dwelling  on  the  good  in  them — rarely 
touching  the  evil.  Never  a  complaint  passed  her 
lips ;  but  she  often  referred  to  the  wise  and  good 
dealings  of  God  to  the  children  of  men.  Once 
she  said  to  me,  "  I  am  only  happy  when  useful." 
What  a  volume  of  meaning  the  sentence  contains! 
Let  not  its  triteness  take  from  its  just  significance. 

"  Was  it  not  best  ?"  I  said,  to  the  friend  with 
whom  I  had  talked  years  before — "  best  for  her 
that  the  sun  was  hidden  and  the  rain  fell  ?" 

"  Perhaps,"  he  answered,  thoughtfully. 

"  Do  you  question  it  ?"  I  asked. 

"No,  I  will  not  say  that.  Doubtless  it  was 
best.  One  thing  is  certain,  the  sphere  of  her  life 
is  sweet.  You  cannot  pass  an  hour  in  her  com- 


UNDER    A    CLOUD.  175 

pany  without  being  more  in  love  with  right  prin 
ciples — without  feeling  an  inspiration  to  good 
deeds." 

And  it  was  even  so.  In  the  winter  of  hei 
adversity  "  much  wheat  had  grown ;"  in  the 
night  of  sorrow  she  had  been  still  gathering 
strength ;  while  under  the  cloud,  holy  truths  had 
dropped  into  her  mind  and  germinated,  the  cloud 
still  shadowing  her  sky,  and  tempering  both  light 
and  heat,  until  the  springing  seeds  gathered 
strength  at  the  root,  and  lifted  up  green  blades 
into  the  caressing  air.  She  was  coming  into  the 
light  and  heat  again ;  but  now,  the  sun  whose 
rays  poured  down  upon  her  life  with  blessing, 
was^  spiritual  and  divine. 


176        THE  SEEN  AND  THE  UNSEEN. 


XV. 

NOW  AND   TO-DAY. 

to-days — how  inadequately  are  the)  «tj>- 
preciated  ?  Now — in  which  all  the  blessings 
of  life  are  alone  included — with  what  strange  in 
difference  do  we  turn  from  its  rich  offerings,  to 
feast  our  eyes  on  gardens  of  delight,  that  spread 
away,  temptingly,  in  a  future  that  forever  mocks 
us  with  the  unattained  ?  There  are  pearls  and 
diamonds  scattered  all  along  the  paths  we  are 
treading,  but  we  cannot  stop  to  gather  them  for 
looking  at  the  mountains  of  gold  that  gleam 
against  the  far  horizon.  All  of  our  unhappiness 
springs  from  neglected  or  misspent  nows  and  to 
days.  The  present  moment  is  God's  loving  gift 
to  man.  In  it  we  weave  the  web  of  our  future, 
and  make  its  threads  bright  with  sunshine,  or 
dark  with  evil  and  suffering:. 


NOW    AND    TO-DAY.  177 

"Come  and  kiss  me,  papa,"  cried  a  voice  full 
of  music  and  love. 

But  papa  was  in  the  hall  below,  with  coat,  hat 
and  gloves  on,  all  ready  to  go  forth  to  the  day's 
business,  and  little  pet  Louis  was  up  in  his  mo 
ther's  chamber,  only  half-dressed. 

"  Haven't  time  now,  I'll  kiss  you  when  I  come 
home,"  papa  answers  back,  and  then  starts  from 
the  house  in  a  hurried  manner. 

A  pearl  lay  at  his  feet,  and  Mr.  Edwards  had 
failed  to  lift  the  precious  thing.  He  would  have 
been  so  much  the  richer  for  life. 

"  Dear  Lu !"  he  said  to  himself,  as  he  moved 
along  the  street,  "  that  kiss  would  have  done  us 
both  good,  and  consumed  but  half  a  minute  of 
time ;  and  I  hardly  think  that  I  shall  find  an 
other  half  minute  so  richly  freighted  with  blessing 
to-day." 

At  the  corner  of  the  next  square,  Mr.  Edwards 
waited  four  minutes  for  an  omnibus.  It  was  lost 

time.     Four  minutes  spent  with  dear,  pet  Louis, 
M 


178       THE  SEEN  AND  THE  UNSEEN. 

how  full  of  pleasure  they  would  have  been ! — how 
fragrant  their  memory  through  all  the  day  ! 

When  Mr.  Edwards  arrived  at  his  store,  nei 
ther  his  morning  newspaper  nor  his  book-keeper 
was  there.  So,  he  could  neither  get  at  his  books, 
which  were  in  the  fire-proof,  nor  glean  from  his 
Gazette  the  commercial  news,  or  state  of  the  mar 
kets.  No  customers  were  in  at  so  early  an  hour. 
And  so  Mr.  Edwards  passed  the  next  twenty  mi 
nutes  in  comparative  idleness,  his  mind  burdened 
just  enough  to  make  him  feel  uncomfortable, 
with  the  thought  of  little  Louis,  grieving  over 
the  coveted  parting  kiss. 

At  the  end  of  twenty  minutes,  the  book-keeper 
arrived.  The  honey  of  Louis'  parting  kiss  would 
have  sweetened  the  temper  of  Mr.  Edwards  for 
the  day.  Without  it,  under  slight  annoyances, 
his  spirit  grew  sour.  He  spoke  to  the  book 
keeper  with  slight  impatience,  and  in  words  of 
reproof  for  being  late.  A  sick  child  was  the  ex 
cuse;  and  as  he  looked  into  his  clerk's  face,  he 
saw  that  it  was  pale  with  trouble  and  watching. 


NOW    AND    TO-DAY  179 

Mr.  Edwards  sighed.  The  pressure  on  his 
feelings  was  heavier.  Everything,  during  that 
day,  seemed  to  possess  a  strange  power  of  annoy 
ance  ;  and  to  the  failure  to  lift  a  pearl  from  his 
feet  in  the  morning,  was  added  many  failures  of  a 
like  character. 

"  "Will  you  please  to  buy  an  almanac  ?"  said  a 
childish  voice,  near  him. 

"  No,  I  do  not  please,"  was  the  gruff  reply  of 
Mr.  Edwards.  He  spoke  as  he  looked  up,  on  the 
moment's  impulse.  The  timid,  half  frightened 
face  of  a  tender  child,  scarcely  a  year  older  than 
his  darling  at  home,  glanced  upon  him  for  an 
instant,  and  then  he  saw  only  the  retreating 
form  of  a  little  girl.  Before  his  better  feelings 
prompted  a  recall  of  his  repellant  words,  she  was 
in  the  street,  and  out  of  sight. 

This  was  a  little  thing  in  itself,  but  it  told 
sharply  on  the  feelings  of  Mr.  Edwards,  who  was 
naturally  a  kind-hearted  man.  He  sat  very  still 
for  a  little  while,  then,  sighing  again,  went  on 
with  the  letter  he  wa,s  writing  when  the  little 


180  THE    SEEN    AND    THE    UNSEEN. 

almanac-seller  disturbed  him  at  his  work.  An 
other  "now"  had  passed,  leaving  a  shadow,  in 
stead  of  the  sunshine  it  might  have  bestowed. 

"Can  you  help  me  out,  to-day?  I  have  a 
large  note  falling  due." 

"  I  cannot,"  replied  Mr.  Edwards. 

The  neighbor  looked  disappointed,  and  went 
away. 

Now  that  neighbor  had  many  times  obliged 
Mr.  Edwards  in  a  similar  way.  Our  merchant 
had  no  balance  over  in  bank.  That  may  be  said 
for  him.  But  he  had  money  out  on  call,  and 
could,  without  inconvenience,  have  helped  his 
neighbor.  He  remembered  this  after  it  was  too 
la^e.  The  "now"  had  passed  again,  and  left 
upon  his  memory  another  burden  of  unquiet 
thought. 

And  so  the  hours  of  that  day  passed,  each  one 
leaving  some  "now"  unimproved — some  pearl 
lying  by  the  wayside — some  offered  blessing  un 
touched  ;  and  when,  at  a  later  period  than  usual, 


NOW    AND    TO-DAY.  181 

Mr.  Edwards  turned  his  steps  homeward,  he  felt 
as  if  he  had  lost  instead  of  gained  a  day. 

Dear  Louis !  Away,  faster  than  his  feet  could 
carry  him,  went  the  heart  of  Mr.  Edwards,  to 
wards  his  darling  boy.  Somehow,  the  father's 
imagination  would  present  no  other  image  of  the 
child  but  that  which  showed  him  in  grief  for  the 
kiss  denied  that  morning. 

"  Where  is  Louis  ?"  were  the  first  words 
spoken  by  Mr.  Edwards,  as  he  entered  the  room 
where  his  wife  was  sitting.  It  was  at  least  an 
hour  after  nightfall. 

"  In  bed,  and  asleep,"  was  the  answer. 

At  another  time,  this  answer  would  have  pro 
duced  no  unpleasant  feelings ;  now,  it  was  felt 
almost  like  a  painful  shock. 

Mr.  Edwards  went  to  the  chamber  where  Louis 
lay,  in  his  little  bed.  The  gas  was  burning  low ; 
he  turned  it  up,  so  that  the  light  would  fall  upon 
his  face.  How  beautiful  it  was,  in  its  childish 
innocence !  How  placid  !  And  yet,  the  father's 
eyes  saw,  looking,  as  they  did,  through  the  mo- 

16 


182       THE  SEEN  AND  THE  UNSEEN. 

dium  of  a  troubled  state,  a  touch  of  grief  upon 
the  lips,  and  a  shade  of  rebuking  sadness  on  the 
brow  of  his  darling. 

"  Precious  one !"  he  said,  as  he  bent  to  kiss  the 
pure  forehead.  "  I  wronged  both  your  heart  and 
mine." 

It  seemed  to  him,  after  the  kiss  and  confession, 
that  the  sleeper's  face  took  on  a  more  peaceful, 
loving  aspect.  For  many  minutes,  he  stood 
gazing  down  upon  his  unconscious  boy;  then, 
murmuring  to  himself — "  It  shall  not  be  so 
again,  sweet  one !" — lowered  the  gas  to  a  taper 
flame,  and  went  with  noiseless  footsteps,  from  the 
room. 

For  the  gain  of  half  a  minute  to  business,  in 
the  morning,  what  a  loss  had  there  been  to  love, 
and  peace,  and  comfort,  for  the  space  of  hours. 
Let  us  take  care  of  our  nows  and  our  to-days;  for 
herein  lies  the  true  secret  of  happiness,  and  the 
true  philosophy  of  life. 


A    LESSON    IN    LIFE.  183 


XVI. 

A  LESSON  IN  LIFE. 

"  T  WILL  stop  now,"  said  Mr.  Fanshaw,  at 
forty-five,  pausing  in  his  life-work,  and 
looking  back  over  the  broad  fields  through  which 
he  had  been  reaping  for  years,  and  then  at  his 
barns  and  store-houses,  that  were  filled  to  over 
flowing.  "  Having  enough  and  to  spare,  why 
toil  on,  eagerly  and  anxiously,  for  more?  Having 
borne  the  burden  and  heat  of  the  day,  why  not 
accept  the  rest  that  a  liberal  competence  oifers? 
Let  others  work  now;  my  part  is  done.  If  I  add 
to  the  wealth  already  accumulated,  can  I  enter 
more  into  its  enjoyments  ?  Then  why  strive  on  ? 
No ;  I  will  stop  now,  and  take  the  good  life  has 
to  offer.  Only  a  few  years  remain  to  me  at  best ; 
why  waste  them  in  this  dull  round  of  simple 
money-making  ?" 


184        THE  SEEN  AND  THE  UNSEEN. 

Mr.  Fanshaw  was  a  philosopher,  in  his  own 
estimation.  He  pondered  this  view  of  the  case  at 
intervals  which  grew  briefer  and  briefer,  seeing 
it  in  a  stronger  and  stronger  light,  until  the  pro 
position  was  fully  accepted,  and  he  calmly  ar 
ranged  to  withdraw  from  all  active  participation 
in  business.  With  the  very  first  step  in  this  ar 
rangement  came  a  shadow  of  misgiving.  Then 
he  went  all  over  the  argument  by  which  he  had 
been  influenced  to  retire  "'r  >m  active  life,  but 
could  discover  no  flaw  therein.  He  had  ample 
wealth,  yielding  an  income  beyond  what,  even  in 
luxurious  living,  he  could  spend.  Why,  then, 
dig  and  delve  ?  Why  gather  in  more,  and  lay  it 
up  for  others  to  scatter  ?  Why  waste  his  energies 
for  naught  ? 

Mr.  Fanshaw  regarded  the  argument  as  conclu 
sive,  and  notwithstanding  the  shadow  of  misgiving 
which,  at  the  very  first  movement,  crept  over  his 
feelings,  he  walked  steadily  to  the  result  in  view. 
It  took  him  over  a  year  to  get  disentangled  from 
the  many  business  connections  in  which  he  was 


A    LESSON    IN    LIFE.  185 

involved,  during  all. of  which  time  that  faint  sha 
dow  kept  growing  more  and  more  palpable,  and 
when,-  at  last,  freed  from  cares  and  duties,  he  sat 
down  in  the  sunshine  of  his  prosperity  to  simply 
enjoy,  he  could  perceive  little  or  no  warmth  in 
that  sunshine.  He  looked  up,  doubting  and 
questioning,  into  the  sky  that  bent  over  him.  It 
was  not  blue,  and  bright,  and  sparkling  to  the 
eye,  but  had  a  kind  of  leaden  dullness  that  left  its 
hue  upon  his  feelings.  A  strange  unrest  began 
to  disturb  his  spirit.  Wearily  the  days  passed, 
and  the  nights  became  more  and  more  sleepless. 

"  Go  into  the  country,"  said  a  friend,  who  saw, 
in  the  face  and  manner  of  Mr.  Fanshaw,  the  evi 
dences  of  a  growing  life- weariness.  "  Build  your 
self  a  handsome  villa,  and  surround  it  with  all 
the  charms  of  nature  made  more  beautiful  by 
art." 

But  Mr.  Fanshaw  had  no  taste  for  rural  life  or 
landscape  gardening.  His  mind  had  received  no 
cultivation  in  that  direction ;  and  there  were  no 
early  associations  to  draw  him  back  to  woods  and 

16  » 


186        THE  SEEN  AND  THE  UNSEEN. 

fields.  A  city  boy,  he  had  grown  up  among  city 
scenes,  and  the  city's  hard  features  were  stamped 
upon  him.  For  over  twenty-five  years  all  inte 
rest  had  been  absorbed  in  bales  and  boxes  of 
goods;  in  stocks  and  bills;  in  mortgages,  bonds 
and  money  securities.  And  now,  that  he  no 
longer  cared  for  these  things,  what  came  in  to 
take  their  places  and  hold  his  restless  thoughts  ? 

"Visit  Europe,"  suggested  another  friend,  who 
saw  the  growing  discontent  of  Mr.  Fanshaw. 

This  was  conned  over.  A  year  in  London, 
Paris,  Florence  and  Rome  looked  promising. 
He  went,  and  enjoyed  to  the  degree  a  man  of  his 
education  and  habits  of  life  is  capable  of  enjoy 
ing;  but  found  the  annoyances  incident  to  tra 
veling  abroad  in  excess  of  the  pleasure.  So  he 
came  home,  to  find  home  drearier  than  when  he 
went  away.  There  was  a  time  when  Mr.  Fan 
shaw  enjoyed  the  daily  newspaper;  but  then  he 
took  a  lively  interest  in  cotton  and  grain,  and  the 
prioi  of  leading  stocks.  Political  affairs  had  also 
a  certain  attraction;  for  the  political  world  was  in 


A    LESSON    IN    LIFE.  187 

close  connection  with  the  business  world.  He 
moved  about,  too,  among  live  men,  all  on  the 
alert,  like  himself,  and  ambition,  as  well  as  inte 
rest,  kept  him  posted  in  common  affairs,  so  as  to 
stand  their  equals.  But  now  he  had  ruled  him 
self  out  of  the  current  movements  of  the  day,  and 
gradually  losing  the  "  run  of  things,"  lost  the  old 
desire  for  his  newspaper — no,  we  err — not  the  old 
desire,  but  the  old  enjoyment.  The  newspaper 
was  resorted  to  as  before,  with  a  certain  pleasura 
ble  anticipation  ;  but  rarely  did  its  columns  yield 
the  honey  he  would  find.  Dry  and  unprofitable 
all.  Daily  the  sheet  was  thrown  aside  in  disap 
pointment. 

Out  of  the  live  current,  Mr.  Fanshaw  was 
moving  in  a  small,  sluggish  eddy,  round  and 
round.  Vitality  was  departing  every  day.  Mind 
was  growing  weaker  through  an  impotent  ex 
haustion  of  itself;  and  as  it  grew  weaker  he  grew 
unhappier.  Plainly,  Mr.  Fanshaw  had  made  a 
mistake  in  retiring  from  business.  So  one  ven 
tured  to  say. 


188        TUB  SEEN  AND  THE  UNSEEN. 

"  I  know  that,"  was  his  answer.  "  I  didn't 
understand  myself." 

"  Go  into  business  again,"  was  suggested. 

But  Mr.  Fanshaw  shook  his  head,  answering, 
"  No ;  I  am  out  of  the  current,  and  have  not  the 
boldness  to  venture  in  again.  Nearly  three  years 
of  idleness  have  reduced  the  old  vigor  of  mind. 
I  feel  that  T  should  be  unequal  to  the  require 
ments.  A  business  life,  as  the  Mrorld  goes  now, 
is  a  different  thing  from  floating  with  the  tide. 
There  is  no  success  but  for  those  who  strain 
every  muscle  pulling  against  the  stream." 

And  this  was  the  simple  truth.  Ease,  idleness, 
and  loss  of  mental  vigor  through  sluggishness  of 
mind,  had  robbed  Mr.  Fanshaw  of  strength  to 
such  a  degree  that  he  dared  not  venture  again  out 
upon  the  waters  where  he  had  once  held  his  place 
among  the  boldest  and  most  vigorous. 

Two  years  more  of  a  fruitless  life,  and  then, 
without  warning,  down  from  a  summer  sky  fell  a 
desolating  storm,  sweeping  from  hundreds  and 
thousands,  all  over  the  land,  the  gathered  wealth 


A    LESSON    IN    LIFE.  189 

of  years.  While  it  raged,  a  bolt  struck  the  fair 
edifice  which  Mr.  Fanshaw  had  builded,  and  it 
fell  in  hopeless  ruin  to  the  ground.  Of  all  its 
goodly  stones,  scarcely  one  remained  unbroken  ot 
in  its  place. 

Stunned  at  first;  then  appalled  by  the  disaster; 
and  then  quickened  into  a  fearful  sense  of  his 
helplessness  and  hopelessness,  Mr.  Fanshaw's  first 
state  of  mind  was  one  of  bitter  complaints.  He 
called  this  misfortune  a  hard  and  cruel  dispensa 
tion ;  and  when  a  wiser  one.  than  himself  drew 
near,  and  sought  to  lift  his  thoughts  into  a  purer 
atmosphere,  where  he  could  see  stars  shining  in 
the  midnight  sky,  he  rejected  his  offered  words 
of  instruction,  and  called  God  cruel  and  unjust. 

"Nay,  my  friend,  say  not  so,"  was  answered. 
"  God  is  good,  and  just,  and  wise.  Out  of  this 
darkness,  he  will,  in  his  own  good  time,  I  trust, 
bring  you  into  marvelous  light.  His  ways  are 
not  as  our  ways,  but  they  lead  upwards ;  he  sees 
not  as  we  see;  but  in  his  purposes  are  eternal  feli 
city.  I  think  that  he  has  work  for  you  yet  in  this 


190        THE  SEEN  AND  THE  UNSEEN. 

world,  Mr.  Fanshaw ;  work  that  only  your  hands 
can  aright  perform." 

But  Mr.  Fanshaw  rejected  the  proposition. 
Worldly  wealth  had  been  the  greatest  good  in  his 
eyes.  Through  long  years  he  had  toiled  for  it 
with  an  unabating  ardor.  And  now,  it  was 
swept  from  his  grasp. 

It  so  happened  that,  a  few  days  afterwards, 
Mr.  Fanshaw  was  in  the  house  of  this  wiser 
friend,  to  whom  in  remembrance  of  warm  expres 
sion  of  interest  and  sympathy,  he  had  come  again, 
moved  by  the  bitterness  of  a  state  that  began 
searching  about  for  relief.  While  they  sat  talk 
ing,  a  child  was  engaged  in  building  a  toy  castle. 
He  had  blocks  of  all  sizes  and  shapes,  adapted  to 
his  purpose,  and  steadily  rose  wall  and  buttress, 
tower  and  battlement,  growing  under  his  hand  in 
symmetry,  fitness  and  beauty,  into  what  seemed 
in  his  eyes,  like  a  very  creation  of  his  will,  until 
the  goodly  edifice  was  completed. 

The  friend  called  Mr.  Fanshaw's  attention  to 
the  child,  and  they  observed,  with  interest,  the 


A    LESSON    IN    LIFE. 


entire  cheerful  absorption  of  his  mind  in  what  lie 
was  doing,  each  well-considered  piece  going  into 
its  place  to  the  murmur  of  a  song  that  issued  in  a 
continuous  flow  from  his  lips. 

"  Pie  is  building  as  men  build,"  said  the 
friend,  "happy  in  his  work.  The  mental  ac 
tivity  required,  gives  an  exhilarant  tone  to  his 
feelings,  and  he  sings  as  he  toils." 

At  last,  the  castle  was  completed,  and  the  child 
stood  and  surveyed  it,  now  looking  from  one 
point  of  view,  and  now  from  another,  and  now 
walking  round  and  round. 

"  Observe,"  said  the  friend  ;  "  he  is  silent  now. 
No  music  is  floating  through  his  lips.  The  work 
is  done,  and  he  is  beholding  it  with  satisfaction  ; 
but  is  he  as  happy  in  contemplating  his  work  as 
he  was  in  doing  it  ?" 

After  a  few  minutes,  the  child  ceased  inspecting 
his  castle  from  all  sides,  and  going  to  a  sofa,  threw 
himself  thereon  with  a  sigh  that  went  audibly 
through  the  room.  There  he  lay,  for  some  time, 
listlessly,  but  with  his  eyes  upon  his  finished 


192        THE  SEEN  AND  TUB  UNSEEN. 

work.  Then  he  manifested  signs  of  restlessness, 
got  up  and  walked  around  his  goodly  edifice 
again — sighed,  and  went  to  the  farther  end  of  the 
room — then  came  back,  and  renewed  the  inspec 
tion.  But  he  did  not  sing  any  more. 

"  Do  you  understand  the  case  ?"  asked  the 
friend. 

Mr.  Fanshaw  had  a  dawning  perception  of  its 
meaning;  yet  answered  with  the  shake  of  the 
head. 

"  The  child's  experiences  are  the  man's  in  mini 
ature.  He  is  growing  restless  for  a  lack  of  em 
ployment.  Most  earnestly  his  thought  went  into 
the  construction  of  that  castle,  and  he  looked  to 
the  beautiful  form  he  was  creating,  as  something 
in  which  he  would  find  happiness.  But,  the 
building  is  completed,  and  he  is  not  happy.  His 
mind  has  fallen  away  from  its  strain ;  the  Avarmth 
of  friction  is  felt  no  longer ;  thought  is  dull,  and 
he  has  a  foretaste  of  that  aching  void  in  the  heart, 
of  which  so  few  men  understand  the  meaning,  or 
for  which  so  few  who  experience  it  ever  find  the 


A    LESSON    IN    LIFE.  193 

cure.  Now,  let  me  throw  down  his  castle,  and 
see  what  the  result  will  be." 

"  Oh,  no,  no,"  answered  Mr.  Fanshaw,  inter 
posing  ;  "  that  would  be  cruel." 

"  Cruel  only  on  the  outside,  but  with  a  sweet 
nut  of  kindness  in  the  centre,"  was  the  almost 
tenderly  spoken  answer,  for  it  was  the  father  who 
said  this ;  and  rising,  he  moved  past  the  toy  build 
ing,  touching  it  as  if  by  accident.  A  crash,  and 
the  blocks  lay  a  mass  of  shapeless  ruins  on  the 
floor.  With  the  crash,  rang  out  a  cry  of  pain, 
and  the  child,  who  had  worked  through  a  whole 
hour  to  erect  this  goodly  castle,  flung  himself  in 
grief  across  a  chair.  His  sobs  and  tears  went  to 
the  heart  of  Mr.  Fanshaw,  and  he  said,  aside,  to 
his  friend — 

"  That  was  not  well  done." 

"We  shall  see,"  was  the  answer. 

A  few  minutes  passed  in  a  silence  only  broken 
by  the  child's  sorrow. 

"  My  son."  The  father  spoke  in  tenderness, 
yet  firmly.  There  came  no  answer. 

17          *  N 


194  THE    SEEN    AND    THE    UNSEEN. 

"  Come  to  me,  Alfred." 

The  boy  came,  slowly,  great  drops  glistening 
on  his  eyelashes,  and  wetting  his  cheeks. 

"  That  was  a  fine  castle,  my  son." 

The  child  answered  with  a  sob.  He  saw,  yet, 
only  the  ruins. 

"A  beautiful  castle,"  added  the  father,  "and 
you  builded  it." 

Out  of  the  ruins  began  to  arise,  in  the  child's 
mind,  the  fair  creation  which  he  had  wrought 
only  a  little  while  before.  His  quivering  lip 
grew  firmer,  a  glimmer  of  light  shone  through 
his  tears. 

"And  you  can  build  it  again.  Be  a  brave, 
strong  boy.  Clear  away  the  ruins,  as  we  do  after 
a  fire,  and  set  the  foundations  once  more." 

Only  a  word  or  two  beyond  these  were  needed. 
The  child  was  soon  at  his  castle-building  again, 
all  absorbed  in  the  work;  and  soon  the  low  music 
of  his  happy  heart  came  murmuring  through  his 
lips. 

"There  was   a  sweet   nut  within   that  bitter 


A    LESSON   IN    LIFE.  195 

husk,  Mr.  Fanshaw,"  said  the  friend;  "and  if 
you  will  take  a  lesson  from  a  child,  and  go  to 
building  again,  you  will  find  a  sweet  nut  in  your 
misfortune  also." 

And  doubtless  he  found  the  rich  and  juicy  ker 
nel,  for  in  a  little  while  afterwards,  under  the 
spur  of  necessity,  he  was  out  in  the  busy  world, 
and  at  work,  trying  to  build  once  more. 


196        THE  SEEN  AND  THE  UNSEEN. 


XVII. 

AN  HOUR  WITH  MYSELF. 

"  T  DON'T  think  you  know  yourself,  Mr.  Self- 

•*-  complacency." 

I  had  been  speaking,  a  little  boastfully,  of  my 
good  qualities ;  particularly  of  my  disinterested 
ness  and  integrity,  when  the  individual  with 
whom  I  was  conversing,  threw  that  wet  blanket 
over  me. 

"Not  know  myself?"  so  I  said  to  myself, 
after  parting,  a  little  coldly,  with  my  plain-spoken 
friend,  "that's  a  good  joke!  If  I,  Mr.  Self-com 
placency,  don't  know  myself,  pray  who  does  know 
me  ?  Certainly,  not  you,  Mr.  Freespeech  !" 

I  was  piqued  at  Mr.  Freespeech,  and  could  not 
get  over  his  remark,  which  involved  a  great  deal 
that  was  not  very  flattering  to  my  self-esteem.  It 
annoyed  me  like  a  mote  in  the  eye. 


AN    HOUR    WITH    MYSELF.  197 

"Not  know  myself?"  I  kept  repeating  the 
words,  every  now  and  then,  all  day  ;  and  when  I 
sat  down  alone  in  my  room  at  night,  they  came  in 
to  disturb  the  hours  that  usually  passed  with  me 
in  calm  self-satisfaction. 

"Not  know  myself?"  What  did  he  mean  by 
that?  I  saw  by  his  eye  and  voice,  that  he  was 
in  earnest.  Somebody  has  been  talking  about 
me,  and  putting  wrong  constructions  on  my  acts, 
and  Mr.  Freespeech  has  been  more  ready  to  be 
lieve  evil  than  good.  He'd  better  examine  into 
his  own  quality ;  and  I'll  say  so  to  him  the  next 
time  we  meet. 

But  I  couldn't  ease  my  mind  by  thoughts  of 
this  character.  My  self-esteem  was  wounded. 

"Not  know  myself?"  I  repeated  for  the  hun 
dredth  time.  "What  did  I  say  to  Mr.  Freespeech 
that  led  him  to  make  so  uncharitable  a  remark  ? 
Why,  that  in  voting  for  Mr.  Cleveland,  I  only 
looked  to  the  public  good,  as  I  hoped  I  would 
always  look  in  everything,  and  did  look.  I  con 
sidered,  and  still  consider  him  the  best  man  for 

17  » 


198  THE    SEEN    AND    T  II  K    UN  S  KEN. 

the  place.  He  wanted  to  elect  Mr.  Grant ;  but 
I  don't  like  Grant.  He  is  capable  enough  no 
doubt ;  but  our  views  differ  widely  in  many  par 
ticulars." 

And  here  came  in  the  questions,  as  if  I  were 
talking  with  another,  who  asked — 

"Why  don't  you  like  Mr.  Grant?  Why  do 
you  prefer  Mr.  Cleveland  ?" 

I  went  down  into  myself  to  get  an  answer  to 
these  queries,  and  after  groping  about  for  some 
time,  came  up,  feeling  a  little  more  uncomfortable 
than  when  I  went  down.  Why?  What  had  I 
discovered  ?  Just  this :  the  impression  that,  as 
President  of  the  Bank,  Mr.  Cleveland  would  be 
far  more  likely  to  favor  my  interests  than  Mr. 
Grant;  and  here  was  the  reason  why  I  preferred 
him  above  the  other,  and  had  voted  for  him  at 
the  meeting  of  stockholders. 

"Very  disinterested,  indeed,  Mr.  Self-compla 
cency  !"  said  I,  two  warm  spots  glowing  on  my 
cheeks.  I  felt  them,  as  if  lighted  candles  were 
held  near  my  face.  "I  wonder  if  Mr.  Free- 


AN    HOUR    WITH    MYSELF.  199 

speech   really   suspected   this?     The   two   warm 
spots  burned. 

It  seemed  very  probable,  so  clearly  did  the 
truth  stand  out  before  me.  I  tried  to  cover  it 
up,  to  hide  the  mean  fact;  but  it  stood  there, 
looking  at  me  with  a  sinister  leer.  So  this  was 
my  disinterestedness ;  this  my  regard  for  the  pub 
lic  good?  There  had  been  some  very  favorable 
testimony  on  the  side  of  Mr.  Grant;  and  Mr. 
Freespeech  had  strongly  urged  his  fitness  for  the 
place,  on  the  ground  of  his  known  inflexible  cha 
racter.  "  Make  him  President,"  he  said,  "  and 
there  will  be  no  partial  administration  of  affairs ; 
no  individual  preference  on  discount  days;  no 
leaning  towards  personal  friends."  Now,  I,  Mr. 
Self-complacency,  standing  in  occasional  need  of 
bank  facilities,  and  having  experienced  many  un 
comfortable  disappointments  on  discount  days, 
had,  away  back  in  my  thought  or  purpose,  the 
desire  to  secure  an  interested  friend  near  the 
source  of  bank  favors.  So  I  had  voted  for  Mr. 
Cleveland. 


200        THE  SEEN  AND  THK  UNSEEN. 

"  I  must  own  up  in  this  case,"  said  I,  feeling 
something  like  a  culprit.  "The  real  motive  is 
plain  enough  now,  but  it  was  removed  so  far 
away  out  of  sight  that  I  didn't  suspect  its  exist 
ence.  And  I  don't  believe  Mr.  Freespeech  saw 
it.  How  could  he?  It  was  nothing  but  spleen, 
on  his  part,  growing  out  of  disappointment.  And 
his  language  and  manner  had  so  sweeping  a  signi 
fication,  as  if  I  \vere  the  most  selfish  man  in  the 
world ;  as  if  I  never  acted  from  purely  disinte 
rested  motives !  He  forgets  how  I  refused  to 
take  advantage  of  his  ignorance  in  regard  to  the 
price  of  an  article,  by  which  I  might  have  gained 
an  advantage  over  him  of  several  hundred  dol 
lars." 

This  thought  restored,  in  a  measure,  my  good 
opinion  of  myself;  but  only  for  a  little  while.  I 
took  another  plunge  down  amid  the  more  hidden 
things  of  my  mind,  and  saw  that  I  had  not  been 
influenced  in  this  act  by  any  regard  for  my  neigh 
bor's  good  whatever — that  his  interest  had  not 
been  in  all  my  thoughts ;  but  only  the  desire  to 


AN    HOUR    WITH    MYSELF.  201 

gain  for  myself  a  good  reputation,  which  I  con 
sidered  of  more  value  than  the  few  hundred  dol 
lars  I  would  make  in  a  transaction,  that  a  day  or 
two  would  expose  as  a  bit  of  sharp  practice  in 
trade.  I  could  even  recall  the  processes  of 
thought  by  which  I  was  influenced  at  the  time. 
How  I  had  pictured  to  myself  the  way  he  would 
talk  about  me  among  certain  persons,  with  whom, 
above  all  things,  I  wished  to  stand  well;  the  con 
tempt  they  would  feel  for  me,  and  even  the  pecu 
niary  injury  I  might  sustain.  While  on  the  other 
hand,  the  refusal,  on  my  part,  to  accept  an  advan 
tage  over  my  neighbor's  ignorance — and  I  was 
careful  to  let  Mr.  Freespeech  understand  all 
about  the  matter — would  be  told  to  my  honor 
and  benefit. 

I  actually  covered  my  face  with  my  hands, 
when  close  self-examination  gave  me  this  picture, 
and  said,  "For  shame,  Mr.  Self-complacency!" 

Again  I  went  down  amid  the  secret  places  of 
my  heart,  and  looked  steadily  at  the  thoughts 
and  purposes  which  were  hidden  away  there  from 


202        THE  SEEN  AND  THE  UNSEEN. 

casual  observation.  I  was  liberal,  taking  my 
means  into  consideration,  in  regard  to  public  and 
private  charities ;  and  made,  yearly,  a  handsome 
contribution  for  the  support  of  the  church  to 
which  I  belonged.  The  thought  of  this  liberality 
had  always  been  a  pleasant  thing  to  me ;  and  it 
was  one  of  my  habits  to  contrast  my  generous  de 
votion  of  the  means  which  God  had  placed  in  my 
hand,  with  the  selfish  withholdings  apparent  in 
others. 

And  in  all  this,  I  now  saw  the  stain  of  a  mean 
and  almost  hypocritical  self-seeking.  Had  I 
looked  to  the  good  of  my  neighbor,  or  only  to  a 
good  reputation  for  myself?  Had  I  desired  the 
peace  of  a  good  conscience,  or  only  the  approval 
of  man?  With  a  singular  clearness  of  vision  1 
saw  myself,  as  to  interior  motives,  and  I  could 
not  find  a  single  one  of  these  motives  that  was 
not  all  clouded  and  disfigured  by  selfishness, 
pride,  and  a  spirit  of  vain  self-glory.  I  gave  to 
the  church.  Why?  In  order  that  the  gospel 
might  be  preached  for  the  salvation  of  souls! 


AN    HOUR   WITH    MYSELF.  203 

This,  I  had  often  made  bold  to  say,  was  the  rea 
son  why  I  gave.  But  I  could  not  find,  in  my 
heart,  any  genuine  love  of  either  saints  or  sinners ; 
certainly  not  enough  to  induce  me  to  give  two 
hundred  dollars  a  year  for  their  safety  or  salva 
tion.  I'm  at  the  confessional,  reader,  and  shall 
make  a  clean  breast  of  it.  No — I  could  find  love 
of  self,  taking  on  multiform  shapes;  but  not  a 
genuine  love  of  anything  or  anybody  out  of  my 
self. 

"Rather  humiliating  this,  Mr.  Self-compla 
cency,"  said  I. 

"  Yes,  it  is  humiliating,"  I  answered  to  myself. 
"  Very  humilitating." 

I  gave,  always,  to  public  charities  when  called 
upon,  and  made  a  merit  of  this  in  my  own 
thoughts.  I  considered  myself  a  truly  benevo 
lent  man.  Now,  as  I  groped  amid  the  springs 
of  action,  I  could  find  scarcely  the  feeblest  senti 
ment  of  pity  for  suffering  humanity ;  but  the  de 
sire  to  stand  well,  as  a  kind-hearted  and  generous 


204        THE  SEEN  AND  THE  UNSEEN. 

man,  in  the  eyes  of  other  people,  was  strong  and 
active. 

"  Is  there  no  good  in  me,"  I  exclaimed,  with  a 
low,  creeping  shudder,  starting  to  my  feet,  and 
beginning  to  walk  the  floor  of  my  room. 

"  There  is  none  good  but  one.     That  is  God." 

I  remembered  the  words  of  our  Saviour ;  and 
they  came  to  me,  now,  with  a  fulness  of  meaning 
never  comprehended  before.  I  had  read  them, 
and  heard  them  read  in  the  great  congregation  of 
worshipers,  hundreds  of  times.  And  yet,  for  all 
this,  I,  Mr.  Self-complacency,  thought  myself  a 
very  good  kind  of  man,  and  far  better  than  the 
common  run  of  people.  Indeed,  I  was  in  the 
habit  of  contrasting  myself  with  other  men,  and 
taking  the  conclusion  in  my  own  favor ;  when  it 
was  not  at  all  improbable  that  the  chief  difference 
between  us  was  that  I  gave  more  heed  to  appear 
ances,  from  a  certain  love  of  reputation,  than  they 
did. 

"Mr.  Freespeech  was  right.  I  didn't  know 
myself;  nor  do  I  know  myself  now,  in  this  new 


AN    HOUR    WITH    MYSELF.  205 

guise?  Am  I,  indeed,  so  wanting  in  honor,  hu 
manity  and  integrity  ?  My  cheeks  burn  as  if  in 
the  glow  of  a  furnace !" 

Take  an  hour  with  yourself,  reader,  and  get 
down  among  the  concealed  motives  by  which 
your  actions  are  governed,  and,  maybe,  you  will 
not  like  the  new  aspect  in  which  you  appear,  any 
more  than  I  like  the  one  in  which  I  have  ap 
peared. 

18 


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